


The Care and Feeding of Sherlock Holmes

by anyalevsyou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Sex, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Slow Burn, Smut, coffee shop AU, there will be smut eventualy i promise, yeah it really didn't take me nearly long enough to get to the smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-05-21 09:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6046722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyalevsyou/pseuds/anyalevsyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John works in a coffee shop to pay his way through uni, where he meets Sherlock Holmes, still in high school, yet already far cleverer than anyone John's ever known - though John would never admit that, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do not, under any circumstances, allow him to spend the night in your flat, high

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to post every Sunday...we'll see how that works out...

It took John four encounters with Sherlock Holmes before he could finally muster up the courage to talk to him. It also took John four encounters with Sherlock Holmes before he asked him to stay the night in his flat.

The first time John saw Sherlock, he had only been working at Speedy's Coffee Shop for a few days. The tall boy had flounced in and muttered his order.

"Tall, black, two sugars," he said with practiced ease. After a few moments, he stated, "you're new here."

"Yeah just started a few days ago," John replied with a nod and a smile. He had wanted to continue the conversation but all of the sudden found his hands empty and small pile of coins shoved unceremoniously in his direction. He watched as Sherlock - though he didn't know his name was Sherlock yet - curled up in one of the cushy armchairs in the back, and stared off into space, leaving his coffee untouched.

He stayed there until John was closing up the cafe at two in the morning. John had wanted to say something then, perhaps ask him what he was doing in a coffee shop for almost eight hours, but before he had the chance to, he heard the door click shut with a depressing finality. John tried not to be disappointed as the last ring of the friendly bells above the doors chimed. It was quite ridiculous, really. The boy hadn’t even been doing anything, yet John hadn’t been able to stop looking over to the corner all day.

There was something almost enchanting about him, with his light unusual eyes, and wild curls.

The day after, however, John had a date with Sarah Sawyer, the pretty girl who worked with him at the coffee shop, and the mysterious boy was pushed from his mind.

 

 

 

The second encounter happened just a week later. It was a Saturday—a busy day for the café, so John was working with Sarah. He liked her, and their date had gone well, if a little boring, and he intended to ask her out again. Soon, he hoped.

Just as he had been about to ask her, he came in again, and John was reminded-somewhat forcefully—why he had been so fascinated by the boy. After he had muttered his order and took his place in the corner—his corner, as John would come to call it—John turned to Sarah.

“Who is that? He came in here before, but I don’t know him,” he asked. Sarah scoffed slightly.

“That’s Sherlock Holmes. He comes in here a lot, but he always just kind of sits there, not really doing anything. He’s only in his sixth form, but he’s wicked smart,” she said. John gaped at her.

“He’s in school?” he asked. John had thought that he was in uni, around his own age.

“Yeah, but like I said—wicked smart. He knows it too, though. Rude as hell. We don’t get payed enough for me to try and be friendly with him, if you ask me.” John chuckled halfheartedly, thinking hard. Sarah didn’t seem to notice his preoccupation, however, as they were just hit with a wave of customers and were far too busy to continue talking. However, John kept looking over the corner, his interest piqued.

He wasn’t quite sure what it was about Sherlock that interested him so much. John had known for quite some time that he was bisexual, so the idea of being attracted to a man wasn’t alarming, but it was so much more than just a physical attraction. Though he was attractive, of course, with cheekbones higher than Mt. Everest, and full pouty lips, and his arse, dear god, that arse was going to kill John if it didn’t get him fired first. But it was more than that. Maybe it was air of mystery and chaos that surrounded him that seemed to be the perfect thing to break the monotony of the John’s cookie-cutter life.

Sarah left as soon as the evening crowd was gone, leaving John alone with just a few customers and Sherlock. By midnight everyone else had cleared out. John wasn’t quite sure why they stayed open so late—how many people wanted a coffee at one in the morning?—yet he was glad they did. He liked closing, the place was still and quiet and it wasn’t like he’d be sleeping anyway. It was usually calming.

With Sherlock in, however, John spent the whole time fretting and stressing over whether or not he should go and talk to him.

On one hand, he really wanted to, yet on the other, he was older than Sherlock, and he really didn’t look like he wanted to be bothered. Just as John had made the decision to go and try to talk to him, Sherlock abruptly stood up and left the small shop, coat billowing dramatically behind him. John glanced at the clock—there was still half an hour until they closed. He wondered why he didn’t stay until closing this time.

 

 

The third encounter didn’t happen in the coffee shop, oddly enough, but in the uni library. John had decided to get some studying done on his day off and had looked up from his organic chemistry to see a very familiar curly dark head bent over a thick textbook, scribbling notes without even lifting his eyes from the page. John had reacted in a very mature, adult manner—by lifting up his book so it stood vertically on the table and hiding behind it, peeking around it occasionally.

Hadn’t Sarah said he was in high school? Why wasn’t he using his own library for God’s sake?

He half wanted to talk to Sherlock, but wasn’t sure how. He wasn’t even sure if Sherlock would recognize him outside of the coffee shop. It was like he had ever done anything particularly memorable.

Then, Sherlock was joined by a girl, and John really wanted to be anywhere else but there. God what if this was a date? he thought. And here he was, staring at them like a creepy old man.

“Why did you want to meet here, Sherlock?” the girl asked, putting down a stack of books next to Sherlock.

“Better quality books, better selection, more quiet than the library at our school,” replied, without a looking up from his book or pausing in his note-taking. John thought he would die of curiosity to know who she was. She was pretty, in a shy, quiet kind of way.

John tried to focus on studying. He really did. But they were sitting right in front of him, and every so often, Sherlock would absently run his fingers through his hair, and god if that didn’t just melt John into a puddle right there.

On top of that—as if there even needed to be more—there was the matter of his voice. Having only heard him quietly mutter a few words, John had never really heard his voice before, but now that he had, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to go even a day without hearing it again. There was really no reason a high schooler’s voice should be that deep.

How John had survived that hour and half torture was a mystery to him. He couldn’t simply get up and walk away because what if Sherlock did recognize him and said something to him? He was unprepared and off-balance and not in any way in the right frame of mind to control himself enough to have a normal conversation.

Or, even worse, what Sherlock didn’t recognize him?

No, it was much better to continue hiding behind his books and pretending to get some work done until they left.

 

 

The fourth encounter happened in the coffee shop once again. Sherlock came in just as he had done before, but there was something different about him this time. When he walked up to the counter John noticed his pupils were dilated—not that John was looking at his eyes, because he wasn’t, really—and his hands were shaking.

John’s immediate reaction was to think he was high. But that couldn’t be right. There was no way Sherlock Holmes would get high. Granted, John knew very little about him, but what he did know made him sure that he must be mistaken.

So he decided he would ask him about it. Maybe Sherlock needed help or something. Of course, it was all for the boy’s well-being, not at all an excuse for John to get to talk to his crush.

John waited until everyone else had left the coffee shop, leaving him alone with Sherlock once again. He had noticed throughout the day that Sherlock had been much more fidgety than normal, and every once in a while, John would see his lips move and he wondered if he was talking to himself.

“Hey mate, you okay? Want a refill?” John approached somewhat hesitantly, holding out the pot of coffee like a peace offering. Sherlock turned and glared at John under thick dark lashes.

“Second year in uni, training to be a doctor, working here to pay for it now that the rugby scholarship has fallen through due to a shoulder injury. Your doctor thinks you might be able to play again, don’t listen to her, she’s an idiot, any stress on that rotator cuff would cause irreparable damage. Raised by a military man, would have followed in his footsteps had it not been for the injury,” he said in rapid-fire speech, spitting each word out like it was burning his tongue. “Shame, really, you would have done well in the army, you love adrenaline and react well under pressure,” he added almost as an afterthought. John gaped.

“How. Could you _possibly_ know all of that?” he said. Sherlock smirked.

“So I was right, wasn’t I? About everything?”

“Yes, yes of course you were right…you were—that was bloody brilliant,” he sputtered. Sherlock looked at him, eyes slightly wide.

“Was it?” he asked.

“Yes, yes of course it was, it was amazing.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.” John chuckled lightly, and a moment later, Sherlock joined in. John listened him, loving the sound.

“Alright, so you know my story, let’s hear yours,” he said sitting down in the armchair across from Sherlock’s.

“You already know my story, you got it all from Sarah Sawyer after the first time you saw me in here,” he replied, rolling his eyes.

“Second time,” John said a little defensively. He desperately wanted to ask him if he was high, but he figured that probably wouldn’t get a good reaction out of his new friend. “And anyway, I want to hear it from you. You’re in high school, right?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I am high, but don’t worry I’m done with it. Today was a…relapse. It won’t be happening again,” he said, not meeting John’s eye.

“What? How did you”—

“You’re training to be a doctor, there’s no way you would miss the signs of drug use and your caretaking nature make it impossible for you not to be worried.” John shook his head, amazed.

“Okay fine, but I do want to know something about you. You appear to know everything about me. Have you got a girlfriend?”

“Eh, no not really my area,” Sherlock said with a huffed laugh. John fought to keep the sigh of relief inside. So whoever that girl was at the library wasn’t his girlfriend.

“Boyfriend then? Which is fine, by the way,” John pressed, heart almost in his throat. Sherlock looked sharply at him.

“I know it’s fine. And no, no boyfriend.” John nodded, relieved. He would have pressed further, but at that moment a customer walked in.

“I’ll be right back,” John said. “Hi, welcome to Speedy’s how can I help you?” he asked with a smile. Inwardly he wanted to punch the man who came in just when he was finally making some progress with Sherlock. The tall man walked in, ignoring John completely.

“Sherlock, come with me,” he said with an oily smile. He looked ridiculously well-polished to be in a coffee shop at half past one in the morning. Sherlock glared up at him from under his fringe of dark curls.

“What are you doing here? Go away,” he said petulantly. The man sighed impatiently.

“Mummy is getting worried,” he said gravely. Sherlock snorted.

“I don’t care, I’m not coming. Maybe later.”

“So you can stumble in at four in the morning high as a kite smelling of cigarettes and piss and who knows what else?”

“I’m clean, Mycroft. Tonight was a relapse. It won’t happen again. But I’m still not coming with you.”

“Then don’t bother coming home at all tonight, you’ll only upset her,” he replied scathingly. He whirled around left the shop in a huff, fingers tight around the handle of his umbrella. Sherlock huffed, burrowing himself deeper into the armchair, fuming.

After a few moments, John sat back down in the armchair opposite of him.

“Who was that?” he asked softly.

“My brother,” Sherlock muttered darkly. John looked at his watch and sighed when he saw it was almost time to close up.

“Look, I can’t let you stay the night here, I’ll get fired,” he said. Sherlock said nothing, not meeting his eyes. “But you can come and stay the night with me. You can kip on the coach, I’ve got a roommate, but he’s harmless, I promise.”

“You just met me,” he said. “I could be a murderer.”

“You’ve only just met me, I could be a murderer too,” John replied. Sherlock eyed John up and down.

“No, you couldn’t,” he said. John chuckled.

 

John lay awake in his bed that night, thinking about the strange boy sleeping just down the hall and wondering what would happen in the morning.


	2. He can break into both your computer and your flat with ease and is more than happy to abuse that power. You have been warned.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John, I’m serious, wake the fuck up, there’s a nutter in our kitchen!”
> 
> “Mike, shut up,” John replied. Before suddenly remembering the night before (well, that same morning really). “Fuck,” he said softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> despite having taken advanced chemistry last year, I'm really pretty clueless so if there's a mistake just roll with it, please.
> 
> Also this chapter ended up being way longer than intended both because I just couldn't find a good stopping point and because I've had this past week off school and have been so bored I seriously considered giving myself food poisoning just for something to do.  
> Luckily, I decided to write gay fanfiction instead.

“Oi mate!” John heard. He rolled over, grumbling, trying to get back to sleep. “John, I’m serious, wake the fuck up, there’s a nutter in our kitchen!”

“Mike, shut up,” John replied. Before suddenly remembering the night before (well, that same morning really). “Fuck,” he said softly. He stumbled out of bed pulling on a shirt over his pants and padded out into the hall.

“John, who the bloody hell is this and why is he burning our table? He ate all the biscuits too! The chocolate ones, I bloody love those!” Mike exclaimed. John came into the kitchen to see Sherlock Holmes bent over their table with a lighter surrounded by bottles of spices and the news playing on their shitty television in the background.

“Sherlock? What are you doing?” he asked wearily. He could see the empty boxes of biscuits littering the room. Sherlock looked up, smiling brightly.

“John!”

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John asked, more firmly this time.

“Testing how different spices effect the burning of wood, of course,” he replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh, of course!” scoffed Mike, throwing his hands in the air. “I have to get to class, John, you deal with this!”

“Why are testing that?” John asked, making his way over to the kettle. “Want some tea?” He tried (unsuccessfully) not to think about the fact that he was only wearing a ratty old shirt and his pants in front of someone who may as well be a complete stranger.

“They’ve just arrested the wrong man,” Sherlock said, pointing to the television where the police were shoving a handcuffed man into police car. John looked at it, baffled.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“The housekeeper said she was baking cookies when the killer barged in, causing her to knock over the bag of sugar, which spilled everywhere on the table. The killer then, supposedly killed the housekeeper’s boss and presumably tried to burn the letter, but the table caught fire. But, the police showed up merely two minutes and fourteen seconds later—a personal best for Scotland Yard, I think—and the table was already almost completely burned. Not completely impossible if it had just been wood, given the type of wood and the size of the flame, but you forget! The housekeeper spilled sugar all over the table! Sugar doesn’t burn, and as I’ve just tested on your table, there are no household spices which could counteract the inflammable qualities of the sugar. Meaning, she has to be lying about something—but why would she lie if she had nothing to hide?” Sherlock finished a deep breath. It took John a few moments to get his brain to start up again.

“Right. Right,” he said to himself. “No, actually, sorry, what are you talking about?”

“The case, John! I read about it in the paper yesterday a woman found killed in her house after having received a strange letter in the mail the day before. The letter and the kitchen table were found burned. They’ve just arrested the neighbor, stupid move, he wasn’t even at the scene of crime long enough to do any damage.”

“I thought you said you were clean?” John asked, not quite sure what to make of Sherlock Holmes, standing in his kitchen in his wrinkled clothes, hair a complete mess with a bit of ash on his nose, waving his hands around like a loon.

“I am clean! Well, perhaps, I wasn’t when I started the experiment, but now I am, and anyway it doesn’t matter, the police won’t listen to me, they never do. They say I’m too young, despite the fact that my IQ is higher than all of theirs combined,” Sherlock muttered darkly.

“Er—right,” said John, trying not to laugh. He wasn’t quite sure how he ended up in this situation, but he was glad he did, even if his table did get destroyed. “Maybe call and leave an anonymous tip? They do that, right?”

“Can’t,” Sherlock said shaking his head. “They know my voice now because I’ve called so many times. They don’t take my tips anymore.”

“So then why did you burn my table? If you’re not going to tell the police, then what was the point?” he asked, getting slightly angry. Sherlock looked at the table disinterestedly.

“It was ugly,” he said with a shrug. John couldn’t tell if he wanted to punch him or fall over laughing. He wasn’t wrong—the old table was ugly.

“You absolute arsehole,” he chuckled, deciding on a compromise. “I mean you really are a wanker. You do realize Mike’s going to make me pay for a new one?” Sherlock shrugged again.

“Have you got any more of those biscuits?” he asked.

 

 

Sherlock didn’t come into the coffee shop that evening and John tried not to be disappointed about that. Having finally talked to him only made him want to get to know him better. Sherlock was unlike anyone John had ever met. It was fascinating, even if he had cost him a new table. John found himself daydreaming about him all day. He wondered if he was planning on getting high again. The thought of that made John’s stomach clench.

“John, you there?” Sarah asked with a small smile. John jerked himself back into the present and smiled back.

“Yeah, sorry must have dozed off a bit there,” he replied.

“Well, go home, I’ll close up tonight.”

“Sarah, really? But it’s only midnight, there’s still two hours until closing time,” John said. Sarah smiled again, resting a hand on John’s arm.

“John, you haven’t left this shop before two in the morning in weeks. It’s fine, I’ll do it,” she said, giving his arm a small squeeze. John abruptly remembered that he had been planning on asking her out again, but everything with Sherlock had pushed it from his mind.

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver, Sarah you really are,” he said gratefully. The words were right there, on the tip of his tongue, asking if she would go out with him again. The words were right there, yet somehow, he found himself only bidding her a good night and walking out. When he reached the street, he started the short walk back to his flat wondering why he hadn’t asked her out again. He liked her, she liked him. There was no reason not to.

Yet John knew the reason, even if he didn’t want to admit it, even to himself. Sherlock Holmes had somehow weaseled his way into his mind and now he wasn’t coming out. He had only had one conversation with him, yet John couldn’t get him out of his mind. He was still in high school, for Christ’s sake. Just thinking about it made John feel uncomfortable.

Not uncomfortable enough to stop thinking about it though, apparently.

 

 

When John woke up it was raining. Which wasn’t terribly noteworthy on its own (they did live in London, after all), but the rain made his shoulder ache and the loud drumming on the roof of the flat, usually a calming sound, was making his head hurt.

“Morning, John,” Mike said from behind the morning paper when John entered the kitchen. John merely grunted in response, making a beeline for the kettle. “Oi, alright mate?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, fine, just in a shitty mood is all. Have we got any biscuits left?”

“No, your friend Sherlock ate them all when he was here, remember?” Mike said, looking peeved.

“Oh yeah, sorry, I’ll stop by the Tesco and get some more today.”

“Will you get a new table too? It’s bloody annoying not having one,” Mike said. He was sitting on one of the chairs where the table used to be, using one hand to hold the paper and the other to hold a cup of coffee.

“Sure. I’ll go right now, class doesn’t start for another couple hours,” he said, finishing the last dregs of his tea and putting on is coat.

“Thanks mate, see you in a bit,” called Mike.

John walked to the Tesco, even though it was raining, deciding he was going to need every last pound he had to buy a new table. When he got to the Tesco he was greeted by the sight of none other than Sherlock Holmes himself pacing in front of the automatic doors, causing them to open and close spastically. He appeared not to notice.

“Sherlock? What are you doing here?” he asked. Sherlock looked up when he heard his voice.

“John! I was waiting for you, of course,” he replied as if it should have been obvious at first sight.

“Er, why? Don’t you have school or something?” John asked somewhat halfheartedly. Sherlock gave him scathing look.

“John please you know me reasonably well, do you really think those mindless, idiotic buffoons could teach me anything useful? I know more about all their subjects than they do,” he scoffed. John rolled his eyes.

“Okay, so why were you waiting for me in front of a Tesco? How did you know I would be here anyway?”

“Closest one to your flat and I ate all your biscuits,” he said, grabbing one of John’s hands and pulling. “Now come on, I need you to buy me alcohol.”

“Excuse me, you need me to do what exactly?” John asked. Sherlock sighed as if John were being the unreasonable one here.

“Buy me alcohol. I have a fake I.D, of course, but Mycroft told all the stores within a fifty mile radius not to sell me.”

“What a villain,” John said, rolling his eyes.

“Isn’t he?” Sherlock said, without a hint of irony. John struggled not to roll his eyes again.

“I’m not buying you alcohol, Sherlock. Forget it.”

“Why not?” he asked petulantly.

“Because, Sherlock, you’re underage and—Jesus Christ Sherlock, how old are you?” John asked, suddenly stopping. He had thought that Sherlock was eighteen at least.

“Seventeen, don’t get your knickers in a twist John, I’m not actually going to be drinking it. I’ll probably just do some experiments on it later.”

“Then why the hell do you need it?”

“My brother’s coming home from uni for the weekend and it annoys him. Normally, I know ahead of time so I can…make arrangements, but I only just found out and my normal…sources don’t work well with a timetable.”

“Hang on, you want me buy you alcohol just to annoy your brother? Sherlock, how much do you think I make at that damn coffee shop? I still have to buy a new table because you burned the other one!” Sherlock stuffed his hands into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills.

“Here,” he said shoving it at John. “That ought to cover it all, plus a couple months of rent. Now come on, he could be home any minute, John!” John looked down at the wad of cash he had reflexively taken hold of.

“Sherlock, I don’t want your money. Jesus, how much is in here? Take this back, I don’t want it,” John said. He was quite positive he had seen at least two fifty pound notes. Sherlokc waved a hand dismissively scanning the alcohol aisle.

“It’s not my money, it’s Mycroft’s, I nicked it, and I’m not giving it to you, I’m paying you back for the alcohol and the table that I ruined. The rest is for the inconvenience.” John looked doubtfully at the cash in his hand.

“Okay, I’ll use it to pay for the alcohol and the table, because that really was your fault, but I’m not keeping whatever’s left. I’ll give you back the change.” Sherlock shrugged and snagged a bottle of whiskey from the bottom shelf.

“Do you think it’ll annoy him if I get the cheap stuff or the expensive stuff? He’d hate it if he thought I was spending his money on expensive alcohol, but the sight of cheap alcohol might actually just cause him to vomit on the spot,” Sherlock said giving John a grin that could only be described as ‘wolfish.’ John chuckled. He had only ever met (and ‘met’ was generous term to use for their encounter) Sherlock’s brother once, but what he had seen of him made John think he was a real prick and the thought of annoying him, however childish, made John smile.

“Get both, it’s his money after all, isn’t it?” he said. Sherlock looked at him with something like awe.

“John, you absolute genius!” he said, grabbing the most expensive bottle he could find. He threw John a sharp look. “Be grateful, John, I don’t toss that word about lightly.” John laughed.

“I’ll mark the day,” he said.

 

It took John the better part of two hours to get Sherlock out of the store. After they picked up the alcohol, John remembered that he had to do actual shopping. Grocery shopping with Sherlock was significantly harder than it should have been. He kept picking up random things and placing them into the cart as if he would actually buy them, and John kept having to take them out and replace them with normal things. Most of the time, this went unnoticed by Sherlock, but the few times he did notice were exasperating.

“What are you doing with that?” Sherlock asked, disgusted. John gave the gallon of milk he was holding a bewildered look. It didn’t have a better idea of what Sherlock was talking about than John did.

“Um, buying it? So that I can drink it?” John said, the statement coming out more as a question.

“But why would you get milk when you could get chocolate milk? Chocolate milk, John. It’s genius. It’s revolutionary. It’s novel,” Sherlock said, looking at the chocolate milk with a kind of starry-eyed longing.

“Right. How old did you say you were again?” John asked. “Just asking!” he added when he saw Sherlock’s scathing glare.

“I’m starting to think you liked me better when I was high,” he said, folding his arms and pouting.

“Eh, no from the looks of it, you need all the brain cells you can get your hands on,” John replied. Sherlock looked at him, affronted.

“Excuse me, I’ll have you know that I have an IQ of over 190”—

“That’s not true.”

“Okay fine, I have an IQ of 176, but that’s still a genius level IQ. I have more than a few brain cells to spare, thank you very much.” He crossed his arms and all but stomped his foot at John. John fought valiantly to keep in a laugh, but in the end was overcome with a fit of giggles so hard, it took him four tries to get his ID out to show the cashier.

The man looked at John suspiciously, who was able to keep a straight face long enough to pay for the food before dissolving into giggles again. Every time he thought he was done, he just looked at the look on Sherlock’s face and was gone again. He looked like a cat that’s had its tail stepped on.

“Right, sorry I’m done now”—

“Good, I hope you’ve had a good laugh at my expense.”

“Aw, c’mon Sherlock, don’t be like that I was just having a laugh, I mean, you should have seen the look on your face!” John managed to stop himself from laughing at the last second.

“Don’t you have class or something?” Sherlock said peevishly. John looked down at his watch and cursed.

“Buggering fuck, I do. Hey, Sherlock, be a mate and take these groceries over to my flat—you remember where it is, yeah?” John asked. He had ten minutes to get to a class that was across London. Sherlock took the grocery bags, looking uncertain.

“I guess,” he said.

“Just knock, Mike will let you in. If he’s not in…if he’s not in call me okay?”

“John, do you really think I need a key?” Sherlock asked, smirking as he produced a lock-pick set from the depths of his coat.

“Christ, that’s terrifying. I’ve really got to go. Thanks, Sherlock, but don’t you dare go through my stuff!” he called before jogging to the street, hailing a cab, glad that he had a passcode on his computer. He sincerely hoped Sherlock remembered which flat was his and didn’t accidently break into another person’s flat and give them all their groceries.

He wished he had given Sherlock his number.

Jesus, he really was a pervy old man.

 

 

John came home that evening to find his refrigerator was full of the groceries he had bought earlier that day and sighed with relief. He quickly went to his room to change into his work uniform and saw a slip of paper on his bed with a phone number and his computer passcode written on it. Underneath was written, “did you really think I couldn’t crack it?” and I smiley face. John chuckled when he saw the note.

**Sherlock?**

He texted the number with some trepidation.

_Obviously. SH_

**I c u got into the flat ok**

_Really John, must you always state the obvious? SH_

_It might be a disorder, John, I’d get it checked out if I were you. SH_

**haha very funny ur hilarious**

_I know. SH_

_Are you working tonight? SH_

**obviously**

_Don’t mock me, John, how could I possibly know your entire schedule already? I’ve only really known you for a few days. SH_

**and uve already slept in my flat, gone grocery shopping w me, and snooped around my computer**

**boy dont we move fast?**

_John, you’re an educated man, please explain to me why you refuse to properly punctuate your texts. SH_

**o sOrRy IS mY lACk of PunCTuTiON bOthErIng u**

_You are so childish. You’re the older one, John, shouldn’t you be more mature? SH_

**O i’M childish? oF tHe twO OF uS WHo sPEnT hAlF an HOuR sULkinG bECauSe wE dIdnT gET CHocOLaTE mILk?**

_Shut up. SH_

John smirked as he entered the cafe. He saw Sherlock in his usual corner and gave a wave. Sherlock waved back, still scowling a bit. The sight made John smile wider.

“Don’t you look chipper today?” Sarah said when she saw him. John gave her a nod.

“Had a good day,” he replied with a small shrug.

“Really? Mike was complaining that you were in an awful mood this morning.” John thought back to the morning and remembered waking up with an aching shoulder and pounding head. He shrugged again.

“What, now you and Mike are talking about me behind my back?” he asked, teasing. Sarah giggled. From the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock getting up and making his way over to him.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to get it from Mike if I ever got the chance to talk to you,” she said, sidling up close to John. He suddenly remembered his plans to ask her out again. The more he talked to Sherlock the more he realized that that was never going to happen.

“Yeah, want to go out again? Sorry I meant to ask you earlier, but I got…distracted,” he said. Sarah smiled brilliantly.

“I’d love to go out again, John,” she said. John smiled in response.

“Great.” He looked up to see what Sherlock had wanted, but found that he had gone.


	3. He really is rubbish at apologies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That girl over there has been eyeing you all night and is planning on giving you her number.” John looked over at the girl in question and shrugged.
> 
> “I could do worse,” he said smiling, trying not to give away how much he didn’t care about the girl and how much he did care about the boy in front of him.
> 
> “You could do better—she has chlamydia,” Sherlock said somewhat dismissively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am aware that it is Saturday and not Sunday, but tomorrow is my mom's birthday, so just in case I don't have a chance to put this up tomorrow, I decided I'd put it up today.

**whered u go?**

_Something came up. SH_

John read the text for about the tenth time, wondering what it could possibly mean. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he felt horribly disappointed to look up and find the genius gone. He had been looking forward to the late night conversation with Sherlock.

**is everything ok?**

_Yes. SH_

John sighed. He had hoped that Sherlock would elaborate, but it seemed like that wouldn’t be happening. He tried to pry it out of him anyway.

**what happened?**

A few minutes later, Sherlock still hadn’t replied and John had to help a customer who had just walked in. He put his phone away with a sigh.

A few minutes later when the customer had left, John turned back to his phone and found he had a text from Sherlock. He tapped it open, trying not to get too embarrassingly excited.

_Something came up. It’s fine. SH_

John sighed again. He ran backwards through what had happened that day, trying to figure out what the fuck he had done wrong. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand it. He decided to go for a joke instead. Maybe the reason Sherlock had left had nothing to do with him. Maybe something really had come up.

**u kno u dont have to sign ur initials after every txt right? i kno who u r**

John hoped that maybe changing the subject would help.

_Can’t talk right now. SH_

Nope. That didn’t even help a little bit.

**ok txt me later**

John turned to help another customer, and when he turned back, he had no other texts. He put his phone away dejectedly, wishing he knew what he had done to make Sherlock so mad at him.

“Everything okay?” Sarah asked, smiling. He smiled back at her, though it was more than a little forced.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he replied, trying to understand why Sarah’s smile didn’t send flocks of butterflies erupting through his stomach and a gentle tingling in his hands—that was, after all, his body’s response to a smile from Sherlock. And John knew he was fooling himself—he didn’t want to go on another date with Sarah. She was nice, and friendly and simple and uncomplicated, but utterly and completely _boring_. And she fit perfectly into John’s life, not because they fit perfectly together, but because John’s life was just as boring.

He could see himself dating Sarah, falling in love with her. He could see it like a picture—ten years from now, both of them doctors, with a couple of kids in a house in the country, Sherlock and the dingy coffee shop they used to work at, both distant memories they like to laugh about every now and then.

The thought made him faintly sick.

“Actually, wait, Sarah,” he said before he could even recall completely deciding to do it. Sarah turned to him. “Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t go out with you again. I’m sorry.”

“Why not?” she asked coolly.

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” he sputtered, “some personal stuff, I guess. I’m not really in the right place to be a relationship right now.” He knew it was bullshit excuse, but he had nothing better.

In fact, he really had no good reason to not go out with Sarah. Sherlock was completely unattainable, not to mention about three years younger than him, so his ridiculous crush was just that—ridiculous and never going to happen. The picture with Sarah was ten years off—going a few dates with her wouldn’t change anything,

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to fake another smile for her, he couldn’t bring himself to force himself to spend time with her and pretend that everything was going great, and he couldn’t bring himself to go out with her, when what he really wanted was Sherlock.

 

 

 

 

Sherlock collapsed on his bed, groaning. Just when everything seemed to be going splendidly.

He had been so sure that John had liked him. Where had he gone wrong? Sherlock carded his hands through his hair viciously. He knew it was stupid of him to leave like that, and then refuse to give an explanation over text, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle talking with John. He wouldn’t be able to look at those blue eyes and see his bright smile, all the while knowing that he would be going out with _Sarah_ in a few short hours.

 _Sarah_ , who was nothing, absolutely nothing special. There wasn’t interesting bone in her body. _On the contrary,_ Sherlock thought with a wry smile, _her bones were the most interesting thing about her._

It was ridiculous. He had always known this day would come. The day when he finally came down from the cloud where any form of relationship with him was possible. He had diagnosed himself as an asexual high-functioning sociopath years ago to explain why he was so different from all the other children, and up until the moment when he saw John for the first time, he had believed it. There had been a few moments over the years that had made him question his sexuality, and as soon as he had laid eyes on the surprising beauty that was John Watson in his coffee-stained apron, he had immediately revised his hypothesis.

However, realizing he was gay had done nothing to convince him that he wasn’t a high function sociopath. That had come later, when he had had a conversation with John and realized that it wasn’t just physical attraction that drew him to the shorter man. At the time, he hadn’t known what to feel about it.

Now, though he wanted nothing more than to just go back and forget about it. He wanted to have never seen John Watson, to have never felt that form of emotion towards anyone.

But that was problem with sentiment—it didn’t delete properly. No matter what he did, Sherlock kept getting interrupted by thoughts of John. Images from the night he had spent at his house, how John looked in the morning with his hair a mess and nothing but a pair of pants on. Images of John talking with him in the coffee shop and being impressed by Sherlock’s deductions rather than disgusted by them. Images of the wicked grin on his face when he thought of annoying Mycroft.

It was all quite distracting.

Yet Sherlock suspected it was more than simply the fact that it was sentiment that prevented him from deleting all the memories—he didn’t particularly want to. The thought of going back to the time before John was a dreadful, dreary one. Yes, being in love with John Watson was painful, but it was far preferable to the horrendous boredom that was his life before John had entered it.

That, and the coffee shop was conveniently close to his house and the only clean place that was open past midnight that would let him in. their coffee wasn’t bad either. Certainly not when John made it.

Sherlock groaned again, burying his head deeper into his pillow.

“Is everything alright, brother mine?” Mycroft’s smooth voice wafted from the doorway. Sherlock grunted in response. “Mummy wants you to come downstairs for dinner. She told me not to take no for an answer. Apparently you haven’t been eating enough.”

“I’m not hungry, but it’s okay because you eat enough for two anyway,” Sherlock replied, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“Stop being childish, Sherlock and come downstairs to eat. You don’t want to upset Mummy,” Mycroft said, a slight warning in his voice. With that, he turned and walked down the stairs, knowing that Sherlock would be following him down within a few minutes. He smiled—his brother really was so predictable once you knew how to play him, and Mycroft had had years of practice.

For a few moments Sherlock lay on his bed before getting up with a huff. He knew he was playing right into Mycroft’s hands, but not upsetting Mummy was more important to him than upsetting Mycroft—he could always find other ways to annoy his brother.

“Sherlock, darling, so nice of you to join us!” Sherlock’s mum joked somewhat wryly when Sherlock entered the kitchen. “I think Sherlock’s got himself a friend,” his mother continued, nudging Mycroft lightly and winking at her husband. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Why would I want one of _those_ ,” he said snidely.

“Yes, I’d heard,” Mycroft said drily, fixing Sherlock with a stare that said he knew all about the alcohol Sherlock had “hidden” and he knew just who had bought it. Sherlock held his gaze with an innocent expression.

“Is that so?” his mother asked. “Then who have you been texting?” Sherlock sometimes hated how observant his mother was.

“My chemistry partner. We have a project and she is horribly inept at chemistry,” Sherlock said with a shrug. He looked up to see three pairs of vaguely amused and not at all convinced eyes. Sherlock amended his earlier statement—he always hated how observant his entire family was.

Luckily, however, they seemed to have understood that Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it and left the matter alone. For that, he was grateful. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how to explain his relationship with John. They had only known each other for a short amount of time, and based on observations of other people his age, Sherlock would be inclined to believe that they were friends. Yet, Sherlock wanted so much more than that. And he had thought—foolishly, he now realized—that perhaps John had wanted something more than that too.

Now that he had left the coffee shop without explanation and was rather rude when they were texting, he thought that maybe that would be what made John realize that he wasn’t quite normal and leave.

The thought made his stomach clench and he excused himself from the table abruptly. He had been angry at John, but he knew that was unfair. John had done nothing wrong—how was he to know how Sherlock felt, and who was Sherlock to expect that he felt the same way back? Sherlock knew that John was primarily into girls—though Sherlock had seen him check out a boy or two. Sherlock was angrier at himself. He was angry that he had let himself get his hopes up and believe that John would feel that way about him. He should have been happy with the fact that someone wanted to be friends with him at all and accept that John was out of his reach.

Once he was out of the kitchen and away from prying eyes he pulled his phone out.

_Sorry. SH_

He sent, unsure of what else to do. He had very minimal experience with apologies, and therefore wasn’t quite sure what they entailed.

**4 wat?**

_Leaving without an explanation and then being rude. SH_

**its fine**

**r u ok?**

_Yes. I have to go, but I’ll text you later. I just wanted to apologize. SH_

**ok thx**

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and walked back into the kitchen to eat dinner with his family, feeling better about the situation, and hoping it was enough.

 

 

 

John set his mobile down feeling considerably lighter than he had been. So Sherlock wasn’t mad at him. It was relief, even if it did nothing to sooth John’s confusion. What had happened that made Sherlock dash out of the coffee shop like that? He hoped that the apology meant that Sherlock would be coming back to the coffee shop tonight.

John jumped when Sarah called his name.

“I’m leaving, I’ll see you tomorrow,” she called. John glanced at the clock, shocked to see that it was already eleven. He had been thinking about Sherlock so much he hadn’t even noticed the time go by.

“Yeah, see you, Sarah,” he said with a wave as she walked out. The coffee shop was blessedly empty, allowing John to take out his phone to text Sherlock.

**u still busy?**

He sent the text with a smile, thinking about how Sherlock would grit his teeth and grimace at the bad grammar and spelling. John wasn’t even usually that bad, he honestly just did it because he knew it made Sherlock angry.

_Not particularly. Why? SH_

**come 2 the coffee shop im bored**

_Okay. SH_

 

About a half hour later, Sherlock strode into the coffee shop, shaking raindrops from his curls. He smiled when he saw John, and John tried not to hyperventilate at the sight of Sherlock, with raindrops still glistening on his eyelashes and his cheeks rosy with the cold, smiling at him.

“Hi,” he said, and if his voice was a little breathless, Sherlock was kind enough not to mention it. He handed Sherlock his coffee, made just a few minutes before by John, who didn’t _try_ to memorize his order, it just kind of happened.

“Thanks,” he said. His eyes flickered briefly over the few customers who were in the shop before he said: “That girl over there has been eyeing you all night and is planning on giving you her number.” John looked over at the girl in question and shrugged.

“I could do worse,” he said smiling, trying not to give away how much he didn’t care about the girl and how much he did care about the boy in front of him.

“You could do better—she has chlamydia,” Sherlock said somewhat dismissively. John choked down a laugh.

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Anytime,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully. He hadn’t been planning on mentioning the girl, but the words had jumped from his mouth before he could stop them—as happened very frequently with his deductions. Yet what startled him most was that John didn’t mention Sarah. He hadn’t looked particularly interested, but not because he was already going out with someone, but just because he wasn’t interested.

Yet John was ridiculously loyal to a fault. He would never have even looked at another girl without thinking about his girlfriend.

“So what’s up? Did Mycroft find the whiskey?” he asked, walking with Sherlock over to their corner and taking the armchair directly across from the one that Sherlock had always occupied. The armchair—a rather unattractive red plaid one with a Union Jack pillow on it—will forever be _John’s_ in Sherlock’s mind.

“Yeah, be warned, he may have traced it back to you. You should expect a full-blown police investigation sometime soon,” Sherlock said, smiling to show that he was joking. John laughed along, though he looked slightly worried.

“You’re not serious, are you?” John asked. Sherlock merely nodded to the door, where a couple had just walked in, looking grateful to get out of the rain.

“Go do your job,” Sherlock said. John was tempted to stay just where he was just to show Sherlock that he didn’t have to do what he said, but decided that his job was worth more than a childish show of stubbornness.

“Hi, welcome to Speedy’s, how can I help you?” he said, the words a reflex now. He got the couple their order, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him the whole time, and he struggled to remain focused on his task.

 

When it was finally time to close, John was almost sad to leave the coffee shop. He and Sherlock had been talking all night and John had rarely met another person who was so easy to talk to, so comfortable to be around. Sherlock was witty and hilarious without trying too hard to be, and surprisingly mature for someone in high school. Honestly, John kept forgetting that Sherlock was so much younger than him—he seemed more mature than some people John’s age.

“Are you going to be okay going home this late?” John asked worriedly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yes, John, I’m seventeen, not twelve,” he said.

“I know, but you’re brother wasn’t all that happy last time, I was just making sure you didn’t need to spend the night at my place again,” John said. He half hoped that Sherlock would say that he needed to sleep at his flat again.

For a few seconds Sherlock considered lying and saying that he did need a place to stay, just for the excuse to stay at John’s flat again, but he pushed the thought from his mind. If he didn’t come home at all, Mycroft might become curious and decide to investigate whose flat Sherlock had been sleeping in. the thought of Mycroft investigating into John was unacceptable.

“No, that was just because I was high. He couldn’t care less about where I am or what I’m doing so long as I’m not tarnishing the Holmes family name,” Sherlock said with a soft snort.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” John said in a tone that offered no room for argument, which was ridiculous, considering he was _Sherlock’s_ brother, and John had only met him once, and that hardly made him an expert on Mycroftian emotions.

Yet by this point, Sherlock knew there was no point in arguing with John when his voice got like that, so he merely rolled his eyes at him.

Soon—much, much too soon, in Sherlock’s opinion—John was turning off the lights and locking up the door.

“See you later, Sherlock,” he said, sticking an arm out to hail a cab.

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on tumblr at astronautsxandxaliens.tumblr.com come join me it's a good time


	4. Sometimes he shows up covered in bruises with very minimal explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! It may have escaped your notice (but I'm going to pretend that you're so involved in the story that it didn't) but I failed to update last week. I really don't even have a good excuse for you guys. I'm just a failure.
> 
> Some trigger warnings: a mildly graphic description of a fight. And when I say mild, I mean really, super mild. Also, like a one-line reference to child abuse.

Sherlock was at the coffee shop the next day as well. John, however, was not. Sherlock looked toward the counter and cursed himself when he saw only Sarah. Of course John didn’t work every day. He had classes and friends and a life. It was something that Sherlock would not have ordinarily overlooked and the fact that he did made him angry. John made it hard for him to think and caused him to act illogically.

Yet here he was, actively _seeking_ out his company. It was completely absurd.

“Are you looking for John?” Sarah asked, looking at him critically. Sherlock knew she was trying to figure out what John saw in Sherlock that made him want to be friends with the strange loner. Sherlock didn’t blame her, because he often wondered the same thing himself.

“No,” he lied in a clipped voice; he didn’t want her to know just how pathetic and sad he really was. “Black, two sugars.” She made his coffee after giving him a glance that said that she didn’t really believe him. Sherlock drank it without enthusiasm. Sarah’s coffee was watery and weak, by far worse than the coffee made by John.

He considered sitting in his normal armchair, but the very idea bored him. He had been hoping that John would be able to distract him from the engulfing, mind-eating boredom. It was the sort of boredom that had led to the drugs, and ordinarily, Sherlock would not have fought so hard to stay clean, but his friendship with John was new and exciting and he wanted to keep it for as long as possible. Sherlock worried that John’s disapproval of drugs would make him leave if he knew Sherlock was using again.

There was always another option.

The last resort.

 _School_.

It would get Mycroft off his back for a couple weeks about going, and might even help his boredom. Downing the last dregs of his coffee, Sherlock made his decision.

 

 

 

 

John doodled on the corner of his paper and wondered if this was how Sherlock felt all the time. If this was what he meant when he said he was so bored he could feel his brain rotting. Because John did have to admit, he did feel like he was getting progressively stupider the longer he had to sit and listen to his professor ramble on about something completely irrelevant to the exam they would be having in a week.

Surreptitiously, John pulled out his phone under the table.

**hey**

He sent, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t be too busy doing whatever it was that he did, to answer.

_Hello. SH_

Came the reply, seconds later. John smiled.

**whats up? im in class and im so bored i think i may die**

 

 

Sherlock looked down at his phone and smiled. Trust John to pick the perfect time to text. He was about to enter English—his least favorite class. He slumped down in his usual seat in the back and quickly began typing out a response to John.

“Oh, look who finally decided to join us again.” Sherlock looked up into the cold eyes of his professor.

“And aren’t you just overjoyed about it?” Sherlock asked, smirking slightly. He watched the look of hatred spread over his professor’s ordinarily kind face, and found himself picturing the look of disappointment that would be on John’s face if he had seen the exchange.

“Who’re you texting? Or better question, who would want to text you, _freak_?” Sherlock was jostled as Sebastian Wilkes shoved his shoulder. “It’s not like you have _friends_ , like a _normal_ person.”

“Go away, Sebastian, or I’ll tell the class what you go up to last night,” replied Sherlock dismissively, sending his text to John, not even bothering to look at Sebastian and his loyal band of buffoons.

_Me too. These fools are lowering my intelligence just by existing near me.SH_

Sebastian paled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about I wasn’t doing anything last night,” he stuttered. Sherlock smirked again.

“Oh it’s yes, you’re right, I’m sure your arse is sore for _other_ reasons,” he said. Sebastian got even paler before turning a bright red, as his friends shuffled awkwardly, not knowing whether to laugh or be disgusted or some combination thereof.

“You fucking freak! I’m not gay, you just wish I was because you’re in love with me!” Sebastian yelled. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the bell rang for class to begin, and the professor who was feigning deafness a moment before, took control of the classroom again.

**dont be an arsehole im sure theyre not actually that stupid**

_John, you have no idea. My mind is literally rotting away. SH_

**u r such a drama queen**

_I am not a drama queen! SH_

**yes u r**

_I am not. SH_

**yes u r**

_This is foolish, aren’t you supposed to be the mature adult here? SH_

**haha not much hope 4 that**

_Yes, that is quite clear by how much your speech devolves when you are texting. SH_

_I mean, really, is it really necessary? SH_

**is it rlly necessary to sign ur name after every single txt?**

_Irrelevant. SH_

**o i c. so u insult me, and its fine, but i return the favour and its “irrelevant”?**

_Yes, John, thank god, I’m so glad we’re finally on the same page. SH_

**ur an arsehole**

_Excellent deduction. SH_

“Mr. Holmes!” Sherlock lifted his head, trying not to show that the exclamation had startled him out of daydreaming about John.

“Yes,” he answered in a clipped voice.

“You will either pay attention to the lesson, or go to the principal’s office!” the professor was fairly quivering from anger, and Sherlock, after weighing his options carefully, decided not to provoke her. Not today. Mycroft would still be home for a few more days, and Sherlock really didn’t feel like sitting through another one of his lectures. So he sighed reluctantly and slid his phone into his pocket, resisting the temptation to pull it out when he heard the low vibration announcing a reply from John.

The rest of the class was dreadfully boring, and as soon as the bell rang, dismissing them, Sherlock immediately pulled out his phone. Before he could open the text, however, it was snatched from his grasp by Sebastian Wilkes, surrounded by a small crowd of boys.

“Let’s see who the freak was texting!” he crowed, opening John’s text. “John? Who’s _John_? Your boyfriend? What's wrong with him?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Stop being a child, Sebastian and give me my phone back,” he said impatiently.

“Or what? You’re going to tell lies about me again?”

“They aren’t _lies_ ”—

“Nobody cares, _freak_ , because nobody cares about _you._ You should have just stayed away, everybody likes it better that way,” Sebastian spat into his face. Sherlock flinched away, trying to block out the words. He retaliated in the only way he knew how.

“Yes, I suppose that’s what your father says to you right before he beats you, isn’t it?” he knows as soon as the words leave his mouth, that he has gone too far. It was always his problem—his mouth didn’t know when to stop. Sebastian’s face turned a horrible shade of puce, and he breathed hard through his nose.

Sherlock had just half second warning before his fist collided with his nose. Another fist connected with his stomach and he curled into himself, blinded by tears and pain. The other boys crowded around him, kicking, punching, shouting. Doing whatever they could to break him down.

When it was finally over—it could have been seconds or days, Sherlock honestly couldn’t say—he was curled on the concrete in front of his school, bruised and bleeding and crying, thought trying to hide it. His phone got dropped a few steps away from him, a couple of the boys being sure to stomp on it as they walked away, breaking the screen and possibly the whole phone.

Sherlock lay there for a few moments, collecting himself. A few people passed him, but none stopped to help. He tried not to think about the fact that most of them probably relished the sight of him on the ground, beaten up and crying. He stood finally, on shaking legs. He picked up his phone and found that it was, somewhat miraculously, still working. Not knowing what else to do, he tapped on John’s contact. He didn’t want to go home, and the place he went to when he didn’t want to be home was the coffee shop. However, the coffee shop held no appeal to him without John.

_Where are you? SH_

_Are you working right now? SH_

Sherlock walked gingerly to the edge of the sidewalk and stuck out his hand for a cab.

**yeah, shift just started, y?**

_I’ll be there in a few. SH_

Sherlock didn’t exactly want to see John like this, but he wanted to see his parents like this even less. Besides, John was studying to be a doctor, he might even have painkillers.

The cab ride was short, and the cabbie kept shooting him strange looks in the mirror. Sherlock wondered what he looked like. He was almost sure he had at least one black eye, and his nose was definitely bleeding—whether or not it was broken was still to be determined. There was something bleeding on his forehead, which Sherlock knew about, because it dripped down, and he periodically got blood in his eye.

When he arrived at the coffee shop, he clambered out gratefully, throwing some bills at the cabbie, hoping it would be enough. It appeared to be, because he sped off without a word.

“Sherlock? Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to you?” John exclaimed when Sherlock entered the shop.

“Ran into some trouble,” Sherlock said, wincing. _Split lip,_ he thought.

“Really, because you look a bit like you ran into a brick wall,” John replied. “Hang on, I’ll go get the first aid kit, Sarah can you…?”

“Yeah, of course,” Sarah said, taking over the counter, eyeing Sherlock.

John led him to his armchair and sat him down, crouching in front of him.

“What happened?” he asked, pouring a few drops of rubbing alcohol onto a cotton swab. Sherlock tried to shrug, and then winced.

“Nothing,” he said in a low voice, trying desperately not to think about how close they were to each other. John snorted softly.

“Sherlock,” he said, holding the younger boy’s gaze. He carefully pressed the cotton swab against the cut on Sherlock’s forehead with steady hands. Sherlock hissed in a breath at the sting. “Was it someone from school?”

“John, please, it was nothing,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to stare into that dark blue gaze anymore. Their faces were mere centimeters apart, and Sherlock, despite everything, found himself dying to lean in and close the distance.

“It sure as hell doesn’t look like nothing,” John said, applying a bandage and leaning away. Sherlock stifled a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t have been able to control himself for much longer.

“It was kids from school, wasn’t it?” John continued when Sherlock didn’t answer. “How are they allowed to do this?” Sherlock gave John a withering look.

“John, you’ve met me, how many friends do you imagine I have?” he asked coldly. He had wondered why John couldn’t see that he was just a loner and a freak, and perhaps this would show him that.

“But what about the teachers? Don’t they do something?” John had dropped the cotton swab into the trash and was kneeling in front of Sherlock, resting his hands on Sherlock’s thin knees.

“I’m sure they’re all just upset that they can’t do it, and they’re just happy someone can,” he said bluntly. He ducked his head, ashamed. He looked back up, however, when he felt John’s hand tighten on his knee.

“I’m your friend. You know that, right? And you’re my friend,” he said. Sherlock nodded slightly, both surprised and touched. John was his friend. “Now, come on, we need to go to the bathroom, I need to look at your other injuries.” John stood, before reaching down and helping Sherlock.

Sherlock tried desperately not to think about what that would entail, because if he did, certain parts of his anatomy would make the exchange unbearably awkward. It was absolutely ridiculous. Half an hour after getting beaten to pulp, and Sherlock was a hairsbreadth away from an erection.

“Alright, I’m going to need you to take off your shirt, is that okay?” John asked, worriedly. “Just to make sure you didn’t do any harm to ribs, okay?” Sherlock nodded, sitting up on the counter, and started undoing the buttons of his shirt with shaking fingers. It didn’t help that they ached and Sherlock was quite sure at least two of them were broken.

John, his friend, was about to see him shirtless.

“Just, don’t go around telling people I made you take your shirt off, okay? I’m a quite a bit older than you and people would talk,” John said, clearly trying to lighten the mood, but Sherlock’s stomach clenched.

“People do little else,” he said, quirking half a smile for John’s sake, but he understood what he had just been asked. _I’ll be your friend, but don’t tell anyone, okay?_ Of course John would be ashamed of him. Of course he wouldn’t want people to know that he was friends with a loser.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John said under his breath as his eyes ran over the mess of bruises scattered along his chest and stomach. His brow furrowed, however, when he encountered some old bruises. “These aren’t from today.” It wasn’t a question. He ran his fingers lightly over the yellow and green spots covering Sherlock’s side, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

“No, they’re from earlier,” said Sherlock in a slightly choked voice. John’s fingers were warm and calloused and it took everything in him not to simply melt into the touch. John looked sharply at him.

“How often does this happen?” he asked firmly. Sherlock tried to shrug again, forgetting that he was hurt and hissed in a sharp breath at the stab of pain through his stomach. Luckily, it took John’s mind away from the other bruises for the moment. His hands moved deftly and surely over Sherlock’s abdomen, feeling the ribs, making sure everything was in order, stopping to patch up his scrapes along the way. Sherlock had to close his eyes and hold his breath and fight with every last fiber of his being not to get an erection. John’s hands on his chest were by far the best thing he had felt to date, and he was carefully memorizing every motion and every feeling and storing them in his mind palace. He had no doubt they would be his wanking material for weeks to come.

Finally, John was done. When he took his hands away, Sherlock was simultaneously relieved and crushingly disappointed.

“Will I survive?” he asked drily, hoping to alleviate some of the tenseness in the air. John gave a breathy chuckle.

“From what I can tell. I would suggest that you go to a real hospital, but I can already guess what your answer will be,” he replied. Sherlock shook his head.

“Not going to a hospital,” he said. John sighed.

“Yeah that’s what I thought. You don’t have any other injuries, do you? Any on your legs or anything?” Sherlock quickly shook his head again. There was no way John was getting anywhere near there.

“No, that was it,” he said. John nodded, handing Sherlock his shirt back. He slipped it on, yet couldn’t make his newly bandaged broken fingers close the buttons. After watching him struggle for a few moments, John gently took over, working his way up. By the time he reached the buttons near the top of Sherlock’s chest, John was breathing somewhat heavily and his face was flushed. He looked up to find Sherlock staring at him and was unable to look away. Their faces were so close to each other, Sherlock could feel John’s breath on his lips. He saw John’s eyes flicker down to his lips and felt his own breath quicken.

After a moment, however, John abruptly drew back, taking a deep breath.

“Right, I should probably get back to work. Sarah’s probably wondering where I am,” he said, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, I should be getting home as well. No doubt Mycroft has already heard about this and is dying to gloat,” Sherlock said, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers and standing on shaky legs.

“You’ll get home okay?” John asked. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes of course,” he replied. “Thank you for...patching me up.”

“No problem, Sherlock. Please, come to me if this ever happens again.” Sherlock nodded before leaving the bathroom and the warm coffee shop, his usual sweeping stride broken by a slight limping.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next week my lovelies!! (Let's hope I get it right this time)


	5. He is completely ignorant of the way human emotions work.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If truth be told, everything about John was addicting.
> 
> And if there was one thing that Sherlock knew, it was how to deal with addiction."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm not super happy with this, and it's kinda short, but it's Sunday, so here you go! I may go back and edit this throughout the week if I have time. We'll see.
> 
>  
> 
> Some trigger warnings: you may have been able to tell from the summary, but some discussion of addictions, and a mention of prostitution (super quick, barely even a line)

Sherlock shrugged into his dressing gown, shivering as the cool air hit his shower-warmed skin. In the mirror, he inspected the faint bruises scattered across his abdomen. They were healing rather quickly, probably due to John’s constant care. Every time Sherlock had come into the coffee shop for the past week and a half (almost every day), John had been insistent in checking on them and applying new bandages on the places where the skin was broken. Though by now, he didn’t have single bandage on him anymore.

Sherlock both hated and loved those moments. Everywhere John touched him, his skin lit on fire. Having John’s hands on him was addicting—even more addicting than the cocaine. If truth be told, everything about John was addicting.

And if there was one thing that Sherlock knew, it was how to deal with addiction. He knew what he had to do. He knew that his fascination with John was, for the most part, curiosity. Curiosity for one of the few people that hadn’t immediately disregarded him as a freak. Sherlock knew that he would never be able to move on as long as that curiosity remained. He was sure that it was the same curiosity that held John there.

So he knew what he had to do. For the both them. Just one night to get it out of their systems. Then they would both be able to move on with their lives. Quit cold-turkey. Though he hated to end his time with John, he knew it had to happen soon before he lost control.

Addictions did that. Made you feel like you were in power and everything was under your control until suddenly, the rug was pulled out from under you and everything was crumbling around you.

So it had to happen soon. _Which shouldn’t be extraordinarily difficult,_ mused Sherlock, as he flicked the lights off in the bathroom and made his way to his bedroom. He knew that John was attracted him—that was painfully obvious. Sometimes he even thought that he cared for him. Sherlock shook his head.

That was ridiculous. John was a doctor, a caregiver. It was in his nature to care about everyone. That didn’t make Sherlock special.

Sherlock snagged his purple shirt off of the hanger, knowing it was John’s favorite on him. He buttoned it up slowly, feeling the soft fabric settle around his shoulders. His hands were shaking slightly and he found himself feeling something he hadn’t in a while—he felt nervous. Not much made him nervous anymore.

Taking a steadying breath, he left, hoping he wouldn’t be back until the next morning. He decided to walk to the coffee shop, both because he was low on cash and the sun was shining brightly—an odd enough occurrence in London.

The hardest part, he thought, would be finding a new coffee shop that was open until two in the morning. It was going to be horribly inconvenient to only come to this one whenever John wasn’t working.

He entered the coffee shop, breathing in the smell of coffee and pastries. John smiled largely when he saw Sherlock, giving an enthusiastic wave.

“Hey, Sherlock, how’s it going?” he asked over the din of the other customers. Sherlock smiled in reply, clenching his fists. He wasn’t sure how he was going to manage without seeing that smile all the time. Then he immediately disregarded the thought. That wasn’t him thinking, it was just the lust. He didn’t actually feel that way about John. After they had sex, everything would be sorted out and they could each continue on their lives as though they had never met each other.

Sherlock nodded once to himself. Yes, he could live with that. He would have to.

“Hello, John,” he said when he reached the counter, lowering his lashes in a way he knew John loved. He saw John’s breath quicken almost imperceptibly—he only saw it because he was looking for it.

He made sure his fingers lingered over John’s for a long moment when he took the coffee cup from John’s grasp, and when he walked away, he could feel John’s eyes follow his arse, so he swayed hips a touch more than strictly necessary. Though he imagined that John thought him horribly naïve and inexperienced, the truth was that Sherlock had tried sex. Quite a lot. Not with anyone from school—they all hated him, of course—but as soon as he was old enough to pass for eighteen, he had been sneaking into bars.

At first it was just to annoy Mycroft, then it became a place meet his various dealers, and then, a place to experiment. He had never understood the hold that sex had on some people. And Sherlock _hated_ not understanding. So after observing many couples interact with one another through “flirting,” he decided to try it out himself.

His results were mildly disappointing. It felt nice, sure, but all the skin and the sweat and the grunting rather put Sherlock off. He did, however, discover that he was gay, a fact which had never really bothered him. Of all his sexual _experiments_ the ones preformed with other men were significantly more tolerable.

After the experiment, he had had sex only a handful of more times. Twice, he ran out of money for drugs, so he gave his dealer a blowjob. A few times he actually encountered a person who had made him want to. Though that was a rare occurrence, and the urge always faded after they were done.

He sighed, watching John interact with his customers. If he was being completely honest with himself, he would miss John. He was his first real friend. But Sherlock didn’t have time for that kind of sentiment. He worked better alone, anyway.

 

 

John flicked his eyes over to the corner where Sherlock was curled up in his armchair. He seemed normal. But the way he had been acting made it almost seem like he was…hitting on John. He shook the though from him his head, almost wanting to laugh. If there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that Sherlock was not hitting on him.

Yet he couldn’t stop himself from looking over to the corner periodically. If Sherlock wasn’t hitting on him then why was he acting so strange?

Finally, as the time was nearing eight, the flow of people slowed down enough that John was able to get away to talk to Sherlock.

“Hey,” he said, dropping down into his customary armchair across from Sherlock’s dark grey leather one. Sherlock looked up from his phone.

“Hello, John,” he said. John fought not to shiver when he heard his voice. It really should have been illegal for a teenager to have low of a voice. They talked normally for about half an hour until another customer came in and John had to go. Sherlock seemed to be acting normally, but his eyes kept lingering on John’s mouth and John noticed him licking his lips more often.

It was horribly distracting. It was hard enough for John to do his job with Sherlock always looking gorgeous in the corner, but the way he was acting was making significantly more difficult.

John shook his head, slightly disgusted with himself. He was three years older than him, for Christ’s sake. He often forgot that when they were talking, because Sherlock acted so much older than his age, but still, he wasn’t even old enough to drink yet. John tried to keep his thoughts directed solely on coffee, feeling like a pervy old man.

 

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes to himself. He could almost see the thoughts racing around John’s mind. If only the fool would just let the morality of it go, and forget that Sherlock was younger than him. It was a snag that Sherlock knew he would run into, but he hoped that he could convince John to forget about. Just as soon as everyone else in the shop left, and it was just the two of them, Sherlock would be able to really start making his move. He wondered if should pretend that Mycroft had kicked him out again and he needed a place to stay, but he knew that that would make John think that he was sad and vulnerable, and he wouldn’t want to do anything, out of fear that he was taking advantage of Sherlock.

John Watson was too honorable for his own good.

After the last customer left, John made his way over to the armchairs and sat down heavily in his.

“Jesus, I thought that one guy would never leave,” John said with a groan. Sherlock licked his lips at the sound, noticing how John’s eyes followed the movement. He smirked, leaning forward in his chair.

“You went to see your sister today,” Sherlock started, knowing how much it turned John on to hear his deductions. John settled back in his chair and smiled.

“Oh is that all you got? You’re losing you’re touch,” John said. Sherlock’s smirk widened.

“You’re disappointed in her continued drinking and her crumbling marriage—don’t waste your time, I give them about three months, tops. You feel attracted to a friend of yours, and you hope he’ll make a move, because you’re too unsure about to do anything and you’re concerned about his age.”

“How did you”—

Sherlock leaned forward even further as he saw John’s breath quicken.

“Don’t worry about it, John, I have it on very good authority that your age doesn’t bother him in the least, and it shouldn’t bother you either, he’s perfectly capable of making his own decisions, so you needn’t feel like you’re taking advantage of him,” Sherlock said, resting a hand on John’s knee. John twitched under his palm, but didn’t move away.

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly. Sherlock smirked impossibly wider, leaning in until he was off his chair and his mouth was against John’s ear. John jumped when he spoke.

“Exactly what you were hoping I would do—making a move,” Sherlock breathed.

 


	6. He's far more seductive than he has any right being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reached into his pants and closed his fingers around John's cock.
> 
> "Jesus," John muttered. Sherlock smirked.
> 
> "Sherlock Holmes," he corrected, "close, though." John thought about replying but at that moment Sherlock had twisted his wrist in a particularly wicked way and it stole the words right from his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI MY LOVELIES!! I'm so so so sorry to vanish on you guys like that, I promise I really am, life has just been quite busy what with graduating (yayyy!!!!!), a family friend's wedding (yayyy!! I'm also super inspired to write a wedding fic now....), and a trip to Europe to visit family (yayyy!!!!). I'm actually still in Ukraine currently and uploading from my phone, so if there are any formatting issues please let me know and I'll fix them as soon as I get to a computer. 
> 
> In the hopes of making my prolonged absence up to you wonderful people I have written you guys a chapter of almost total smut. 
> 
> TW: as stated above, this chapter is basically just smut. Sherlock is 3 years younger than John, so if any of that squicks you out, you can probably just skip this chapter, there really isn't any plot. 
> 
> I'll stop babbling now and let you get on with your smut reading!

“Sherlock I really don’t think this is a good idea,” John said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Why not?” Sherlock let his lips brush against John’s ear and heard a sharp intake of breath. “I told you not to worry about my age. We both want this, John.”

“But we’re friends, Sherlock, and friends don’t do this.”

“We can still be friends,” lied Sherlock. If he was honest, he was bit surprised John had even called them friends. He knew, however, that after what was about to happen, happened, John would no longer want to be friends with him. Sherlock didn’t blame John—it wasn’t his fault. It was the curiosity.

And once that curiosity wore off, there would be nothing keeping John there. And that was okay. Because that curiosity was the only thing keeping Sherlock there as well.

“Sherlock…” John said, in what was clearly supposed to be a firm tone of voice, but it was breathy and sounded a bit too much like a moan to be believable. John took a breath like he was about to say something else, but before he could, Sherlock covered his mouth with his own. Sherlock reached up and cupped John’s face with his large hands running his tongue lightly over his John’s bottom lip.

After a moment, John kissed back enthusiastically, before abruptly pulling away.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock I’m at work, I can’t do this right now,” he said. Sherlock’s only reply was to continue kissing his way down John’s jaw stubbornly. “Sherlock I’m serious.”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed, “you get off in half an hour, I’ll just wait until then.” He stood from his crouch and sat back in his chair, not breaking eye contact with John. John shook his head.

“You’re a bastard,” he said affectionately. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes.”

“Don’t think you’re getting off that easy though, we're talking about this,” John said firmly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Ugh, talking. Talking’s boring, why would you ever want to do that?”

“Because as boring as it may be, it’s necessary and”—

“Necessary? How is it necessary? Aside from the age issue, which we’ve already discussed what more could you possibly want to talk about?” Sherlock scoffed. John floundered a moment before grasping onto a topic with relief.

“STDs,” he blurted out.

“Not a problem”—

“Sherlock, you were an intravenous drug user, I know you’re clean now, but who knows what you might have”—

“John, really, do you think that with a brother like Mycroft there would be any chance that I would get anything less than regular checkups? I’m clean. And we don’t have to worry about you, you’re training to be a doctor, you get checked regularly as well,” Sherlock replied abruptly.

“Fine, what about us?” John asked.

“What about us?”

“Yes, Sherlock, we’re friends. In case it has escaped your notice, friends don’t really do this sort of thing,” he said gesturing in between them. John wasn’t quite sure why he was protesting so much. He knew that he had been attracted to the tall boy for ages, and he was finally getting the chance to act on it, and here he was—resisting.

“Why not?” Sherlock asked.

“What?”

“You said friends don’t do this sort of thing. Why not?” he asked again, in that short, clipped way he had, and John stared for a few seconds, suddenly remembering how young and inexperienced Sherlock was.

“Because it gets complicated and it never ends well, and it just doesn’t work.”

Sherlock merely shrugged in response.

“Then we won’t make it awkward,” Sherlock said simply. He was a little confused as to why this same subject was being brought up again. It wasn’t like they were especially close friends—at least not by John’s standards, by Sherlock’s standards, anyone who he didn’t hate could be considered a close friend. But John had so many friends. What use did he have for a cold, strange freak, three years his junior?

Honestly, until this conversation, Sherlock hadn’t even been sure that John had really counted them as friends. He had thought that he was an acquaintance that John talked to in order to alleviate the boredom of his job.

John huffed out a laugh.

“Yeah sure, of course it’ll be that simple,” he muttered. Then he checked his watch. Ten minutes until he got off. Fuck it, he thought. He over-analyzed everything way too much; he was just going to go for it. Leaning forward, he took Sherlock face in his hands and kissed him, gently at first, but quickly growing more intense.

He sincerely hoped that nobody would walk in during the last five minutes of his shift, because Sherlock was a far better kisser than he had any right to be.

Sherlock, who had climbed on top of him and was straddling him in his chair, and was slowly grinding down onto him. Holy fuck, Sherlock was much better at all of this than he had any right to be. John let out a breathy moan into Sherlock’s mouth and reached down to Sherlock’s arse, squeezing lightly.

Sherlock’s breath hitched in what was half a chuckle half a moan. He kissed his way down John’s jaw, nipping at the skin with his teeth every once in a while.

“Sherlock,” John said in a strangled voice. The younger boy paid no mind to him and continued his journey down John’s neck.

“Sherlock, seriously.”

“What now, John?” asked Sherlock, his voice muffled against John’s skin.

“I am not about to bugger you in this chair. We’re going to my flat,” he said, smiling as he felt Sherlock shudder at the words.

“Okay,” he replied, his voice hoarse and breathy. John gently pushed him to his feet, and he stood on shaky legs. John tried not to smirk again, but knew he failed.

John closed up quickly, doing possibly the worst clean-up job that he had ever done. They didn’t talk much, but the air between them was heated, tense. When John was locking the door for the night, his hands were shaking slightly, causing him to fumble around his keys.

“Hurry up, John,” Sherlock breathed down his neck, pressing himself against John’s back. John’s knees went weak when he felt the erection brushing on his lower back. Sherlock’s large hands ran down John’s sides.

“Not helping, Sherlock,” John said, leaning back when he felt Sherlock’s hands travel up to his chest. Sherlock pulled away, smirking, leaving John feeling cold, even though the night was warm. He finally managed to lock the door and he turned away with relief, only to meet Sherlock’s eyes, dark with arousal. The breath left him in a gasp and took one step and pressed himself against the taller boy.

His lips were soft, so soft, and there was really no reason that one touch of his tongue should have that effect on John. John gently bit into that full bottom lip, like he had dreamed about consistently since the moment when he had first seen it. Sherlock gave a breathy moan that made John’s knees weak. With one last lick into that sinful mouth, John pulled away, smirking at Sherlock’s small whimper. It was a sound he knew Sherlock would never have made intentionally, and perhaps the taller boy didn’t even know that John had heard it, so he simply smirked and said nothing.

He took Sherlock’s hand, the long fingers cold, despite the warm night and called a cab, knowing he wouldn’t be able to make the walk home if Sherlock kept looking at him like that.

They clambered into the cab when it pulled up next to them, and John let his hand fall in the seat in between them, inches away from Sherlock’s leg. He slowly let his hand creep closer and saw Sherlock eyeing it, his own fingers twitching. Neither of them said anything, but the tension was so thick between them, John was surprised the cabbie didn’t say anything just to break it.

A huff of breath left Sherlock’s mouth with a loud sound when John’s hand found his thigh. Sherlock looked over to John and John felt a burst of arousal shoot straight to his cock from the naked lust in Sherlock’s face. His silvery eyes looked molten in the dim light of street lamps they passed under. John slowly stroked his thumb over Sherlock’s denim-covered thigh, and watched as Sherlock’s pale hand curled themselves into tight fists, the two of them never breaking eye contact. Sherlock sank his teeth gently into his full bottom lip, and John watched the movement, barely able to keep a low whine from slipping out of his throat. He didn’t totally succeed however, a small sound did pass his lips, and he saw Sherlock’s pupils get impossibly wider when he heard it.

Finally, finally, the cab slowed to a stop outside of John’s flat and the two stumbled out, the cabbie seeming just as happy to see them go as they were to leave. Once again, Sherlock pressed himself as close as he could to John as the shorter man struggled to find the right key for the lock. When he finally managed it—a difficult task with Sherlock slowly licking and nibbling at his earlobe—he stumbled into the flat, and had Sherlock shoved up against the door before either of them could even take a breath. He attacked Sherlock’s mouth with his own, plundering it roughly. Sherlock could only lean heavily against the door for support and give breathy moans, digging his fingers into John’s arse.

The two of them snogged against the door until Sherlock’s knees began giving way under John’s attack. He pulled back a little bit, to allow the taller boy to breathe, before pulling him roughly into his room and pinning him to the bed.

“Sherlock,” he growled into the taller boy’s neck, “you have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this.” Sherlock gave a shuddery moan at the words, his legs falling open to allow John to settle between them. John kissed his way down Sherlock’s neck, leaving marks across his pale skin. He had to force himself away from the smooth expanse of skin—he could have spent hours on Sherlock’s neck alone, but his cock was throbbing impatiently in his jeans.

He unbuttoned Sherlock’s ridiculously tight shirt roughly, kissing his way down the newly exposed skin eagerly. He had seen his chest quite a few times when he had been patching him up after the fight, and had been dying to get his lips on it every time. Now that he finally could he would take advantage of the opportunity in every way he could. He kissed his way down sharp collarbones and stopped to nibble softly at birthmarks.

He swiped a tongue over one nipple, and Sherlock arched off the bed, moaning. John looked up at him and grinned, loving the way Sherlock was squirming under him. He ground his hips down onto him, their clothes cocks meeting through layers of fabric, and Sherlock threw back his head, digging his teeth into his bottom lip to avoid shouting out. John reached up and pulled the lip from his teeth.

“You can be loud, there’s nobody here to hear us. Mike's at his girlfriend's,” John said, grinding down onto Sherlock’s cock once more. Sherlock held John’s gaze for a few seconds before his head dropped back and his eyes slammed closed, letting out a loud moan. John’s cock twitched at the sound, and he bent his head back down to Sherlock’s nipples, wanting to make him moan again.

Which turned out not to be particularly difficult—Sherlock was not only ridiculously sensitive, he was also quite loud. John should have expected that, he supposed, given how loud Sherlock was in general. John continued licking his way slowly down Sherlock’s pale chest until he reached the top of the thin boy’s trousers. He glanced up at Sherlock for permission before slowly undoing the top button of his jeans. Sherlock met his gaze and nodded briefly but impatiently.

“John, please,” he breathed while John slowly pulled the zipper down. With a smirk, John sped his motions up, just as eager to get Sherlock’s trousers off as Sherlock was. John pulled Sherlock’s jeans off of him, licking his lips at the sight of the obvious tent in Sherlock’s black pants.

Sherlock sat up, bringing their mouths back together and pushed his hands under John’s shirt. He felt the definition of John’s muscles from rugby, and got impossibly harder.

“Take yours off too,” he murmured into John’s hot mouth, pushing the coffee-stained shirt up John’s chest. They broke away from each other for a moment to allow it to slip off, before coming back together, Sherlock’s large hands exploring the previously unavailable skin. John gasped into Sherlock’s mouth before sliding down his body to return to his earlier position between his legs. He pulled Sherlock’s pants off hastily and found himself face to face with Sherlock’s cock. He could honestly say he didn’t want to be anywhere else. It was shaped like the rest of him—long and somewhat thin—and John was practically salivating for it.

He licked a long, experimental stripe from the root to the tip, swirling his tongue around the head. Sherlock groaned, arching off the bed. John smirked, loving how responsive Sherlock was. After a moment of simply holding the head of Sherlock's cock in his mouth, he slowly began sucking lightly on it, bobbing his head.

"John, please," Sherlock said, threading his fingers through John's short hair and pulling lightly. John pulled off with a quiet pop.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he asked, smirking. Sherlock groaned at the loss of John's mouth and pushed at his head slightly, urging him back toward his cock. With a soft chuckle, John returned his mouth to its earlier position on Sherlock's cock.

He continued bobbing his head, getting lower on his cock with every time, until he was as far as he could go. He sucked for a few moments before Sherlock pulled him off with a strangled groan.

"Stop," he gasped, "please John, I'll come if you don't stop." John smirked again as he pulled away from Sherlock, adjusting his own cock from within the confines of his trousers.

"You're so fucking sensitive," John muttered. After a few moments to catch his breath, Sherlock struggled with John's trousers with slightly shaking fingers. Finally, he managed to unbutton them and pull them down with very little help from John, who was fighting not to laugh at the sight of Sherlock battling with his trousers.

All thoughts of laughter stopped however, when Sherlock reached into his pants and closed his fingers around John's cock.

"Jesus," John muttered. Sherlock smirked.

"Sherlock Holmes," he corrected, "close, though." John thought about replying but at that moment Sherlock had twisted his wrist in a particularly wicked way and it stole the words right from his mouth.

"John, please tell me you have lube," Sherlock said, before closing his teeth over John's earlobe and causing the older boy to cry out.

"Yes, fuck yes. In the bedside table," he gasped. At that moment, John knew that Sherlock was truly talented because he somehow managed to arch himself off the bed and get the lube while still giving John the best hand job he had ever gotten.

After he retrieved it from the bedside table, Sherlock unceremoniously shoved the lube into John's hands and flipped himself over so he was on his hands and knees. John sucked in a breath at the sight of Sherlock presenting himself like that.

"You've done this before, right?" John asked, suddenly unsure. As much as he wanted this to happen, he didn't want to hurt the younger boy. Sherlock threw a scathing look over his shoulder.

"Yes, John, now stop thinking and fuck me," he replied. John's cock throbbed at the curse word coming from Sherlock's ordinarily clean mouth, and he got ready to do just that.

He ran a finger from the sensitive place just behind Sherlock's cock and circled it over his entrance, not yet slipping it in, just teasing. After a few moments of this, Sherlock whined and pressed back against the finger. John allowed his finger to slip in and Sherlock gasped under him at the sudden intrusion.

"All right?" John asked, worried that it was too much.

"Yes, John, please," he whined.

"Please, what?" asked John.

"More," Sherlock said, insistently pushing back against the finger once more. For a few moments John watched in fascination as Sherlock fucked himself on John's finger, before he added another one. Sherlock moaned as the second finger entered him and the sound made John's cock throb once more. He quickly scissored his fingers, not in the mood for teasing anymore. He stroked over Sherlock's prostate lightly, watching as the boy arched off the bed with a loud moan.

"God, you're beautiful," he said, the words slipping out more by accident than anything else. Sherlock colored a little bit, but other than that gave no indication that he'd heard.

John added a third finger and fucked Sherlock with them until he felt that he was loose enough for him. He slipped his fingers out of Sherlock and was reaching for the condoms when he was stopped by Sherlock's hand.

"No condoms," he said. John sighed.

"Sherlock"--

"We're both clean and I need to feel you, John. Please." John shuddered at the words in arousal. He was so hard he was worried that he wouldn't last longer than a few seconds inside Sherlock. He poured some more lube onto himself, hissing slightly when the cold liquid hit his heated skin.

Finally, finally, the head of his cock was up against Sherlock's opening. He pushed forward slowly until the tip was inside of Sherlock, and then he stopped as both of them caught their breath.

John pushed in a little more and moaned.

"Fuck Sherlock, you feel so good," he said.

"Then hurry up and fuck me already," Sherlock tried to snap, but the effect was lost when Sherlock's voice strained and he let out an involuntary whimper. John smirked before suddenly snapping his hips forward, sliding himself all the way into Sherlock, until his thighs met Sherlock's arse.

Both boys let out strangled moans. John ran a hand down Sherlock's smooth back before slowly starting to move. He lightly thrust in and out of Sherlock, not wanting to hurt him.

All of the sudden, Sherlock gave a loud moan, digging his fingers into the bedding under him. John felt him twitch and clench around his cock. He grinned, knowing he had found Sherlock's prostate. He continued thrusting, aiming for that spot as Sherlock writhed and whimpered under him, beyond words. John sped up his thrusts until he was pounding into him, the bed frame hitting the wall with every thrust. Both were beyond caring about the neighbors. Sherlock had closed his eyes, his face one of completely blissed out delight. He could do more than chant John's name over and over in a breathy voice, his cock leaking steadily on the sheets below him.

With a growl, John threaded his fingers in Sherlock's unruly curls and pulled, lifting his head off the bed and arching his back. The new angle allowed John to thrust harder, hitting Sherlock's prostate every time, and the moment John had touched his hair, Sherlock had gone wild. He shouted John's name in a pleasure and his cock strained and twitched.

John felt Sherlock flutter around him and knew that he was close.

"Come for me, Sherlock," he said, reaching around with the hand not in Sherlock's hair and giving his cock three short pulls before Sherlock was coming in thick ropes all over the bed. His eyes were still closed and he seemed unable to stop shouting John's name - or at least unaware he was doing it. He clenched tight around John's cock as he came, and John followed soon after with a final thrust. He buried himself deep into the younger boy, feeling his come coat Sherlock's walls.

The two collapsed onto the bed together.

"That was amazing," Sherlock murmured quietly. John knew he had said it more for himself, but he allowed himself to preen anyway. He was about to respond, but looked to see Sherlock was sound asleep. With a soft smile, John let his eyes drift shut and his body to relax as he fell asleep as well, wondering what the morning would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next time my lovelies!! (I'll try not to make that too long from now, but I'm gonna be in Ukraine until mid July so we'll see how it goes. To any of you who might live here, Здравствуйте! And hit me up, we can hang out!!)


	7. His brother thinks he's a Bond villain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! I'm finally back home! From here on out, updates should (hopefully) be regular again.  
> Feel free to yell at me if they're not. I know I'm trash.

John blinked himself awake, registering the warm body cuddled up close to his own. For a moment he lay awake, trying to figure out what he was looking at. With another blink, the fog cleared from his mind as his eyes focused in on the curl of dark hair, sticking up in an odd angle from the rest. He smiled as the events of the night before came rushing back. His nose was buried in the thick nest of dark curls of Sherlock’s hair.

John took a deep breath, breathing in the smell of poncy shampoo, cigarettes, and another smell that was completely unnameable, yet decidedly Sherlock. He smiled to himself, replaying bits of last night. He stopped, however, when part of his anatomy began getting a little too excited for his liking. He lifted his head to glance at the clock briefly and stifled a groan.

He really needed to get up soon and go to class. He gave himself another six minutes to lay awake and savour the fact that he was currently cuddling ( _cuddling_ ) with Sherlock ( _Sherlock_ ). The taller boy had curled up against his side, resting his head against John’s chest. Their legs were tangled together along with the linens.

John rolled over slowly, carefully, so Sherlock’s head resting against his bicep instead. Looking at Sherlock, John sighed softly, trying to keep from grinning. Sherlock looked so soft and young in his sleep. The sharp, hard lines of his face smoothed, and for the first time, John could see the seventeen-year-old in his friend.

His brow furrowed at the thought.

He wasn’t sure if they were friends anymore. He wasn’t sure what they were. That was the reason John had resisted sex with Sherlock to begin with.

Sherlock seemed perfectly content with remaining friends, but John knew that would only spell disaster. He knew he had feelings for Sherlock. Feelings of a more…romantic variety. Becoming fuck-buddies (just thinking the word gave John a bad taste in his mouth, but he forced himself to think it anyway) with the boy he had feelings for was just _asking_ for heartbreak.

Yet, John knew he wouldn’t refuse. After last night, seeing and feeling how excellent sex with Sherlock Holmes really was, if Sherlock came to him again and asked to have sex again, John knew he wouldn’t refuse. He knew he _couldn’t_ refuse.

Unless Sherlock wanted a relationship.

John felt his gut clench at the thought. He wanted a relationship with his crazy best friend more than anything. He shook his head, burrowing his face into his soft pillow. He knew Sherlock. And, knowing Sherlock, he also knew that a relationship was probably the last thing the boy wanted.

John glanced at the clock again and realized with the start that his six minutes had passed long ago. He stood as carefully as possible, not wanting to wake Sherlock, knowing how rare it was the boy slept at all, let alone the whole night through.

He got dressed quickly, running late to class (again), because of Sherlock (again). Sorting through his things, he quickly found a pen and paper and scribbled a note telling Sherlock he had class. He knew Sherlock would probably roll his eyes and mutter “obviously” under his breath, but he didn’t want him to think and John had left because he wanted to.

He glanced back at his bed just before he left, and smiled despite himself. The sight of Sherlock curled up in _his_ bed, hair messy because of _his_ fingers, a light bruise forming on his neck from _his_ lips; was one of the best sights he had ever seen.

Keeping his steps light, John quickly walked over to Sherlock (stepping over Sherlock’s trousers as he did so, another sight he loved), and dropped a small, chaste kiss on his forehead. He stood and left quickly, knowing if he stayed a moment longer he wouldn’t be able to tear himself away.

A pointed cough greeted him when he entered the kitchen.

“’Morning, Mike,” John said, warily. Mike raised his eyebrows and smiled knowingly.

“Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?” Mike asked, in an overly formal tone. The kind he only used when there was something going on.

“Very good, thanks. And you?” he responded in kind, and watched as Mike’s face, so much more expressive than that of the man currently sleeping his room, shifted in amusement.

“Oh, yes, I had a great night, thanks for asking. Though probably not as good as yours…” he trailed off with a seemingly innocent expression, and John fought to keep a smile off his face. He should have known Mike wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

“Yes, okay, I slept with Sherlock Holmes last night,” he said, rolling his eyes again. Mike grinned.

“I knew it! I knew you were into him!” he exclaimed.

“All right, all right, let me get to class, I’m already late,” John said, grinning. Mike laughed and lifted his mug of coffee to John.

“Good on you, mate.”

 

 

A shiny black car slid to a smooth stop next to John. He glanced at it curiously then kept walking.

The car purred as it kept pace with him, and he turned fully toward it, wondering what the hell was going on. The door opened and John looked in to see a pretty woman with her nose buried in her phone.

“Get in, Mr. Watson,” she said, without looking up. He clenched his fists at his sides and gave her a slightly amused glance.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” he asked, wondering if this was some kind of joke. She finally looked at him, her face smooth and expressionless.

“Get in the car, Mr. Watson,” she said, her voice slightly firmer.

“No thanks, I don’t think I will.” He started walking once more, when the payphone near him began ringing. He glanced at it briefly before disregarding it. The car with the strange woman pulled up next to him again. He refused to look at her, but she cleared her throat pointedly.

“Aren’t you going to answer, Mr. Watson?” she asked, nodding to the payphone. “My boss does hate to wait.” John looked from her to the phone and back again, before marching to the phone apprehensively.

“Hello?” he said cautiously.

“Look to the building on your left, Mr. Watson,” a man’s voice said. John looked before he was even aware he was doing it.

“Who is this?” he asked, his eyes on the security camera trained on him. He was sure that was what the man was referring to.

“Watch,” the man continued, ignoring John’s question. He stared as the security camera swiveled away from him.

“Who’s speaking?” John demanded.

“Now look across the street.” When John raised his eyes to it, he saw another camera pointed at him. As soon as he caught sight of it, however, it turned away.

“And finally, look to the building on your right.” For the third time, John looked up to see a security camera pointed at him, only to swivel away, obviously on the command of the man on the phone.

“Who are you, and how are you doing this?” John asked, angry so he wouldn’t be frightened.

“Do as the pretty woman says, Mr. Watson, and get into the car.” The line went dead. John listened to the shrill tone for a few seconds before leaving the phone box and getting into the car.

“That was your…boss.” John said when the car purred into motion. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” said the woman without looking up from her phone. John nodded to himself, and looked out the window, trying to figure out where he was going.

“I suppose there isn’t much of a chance that I’m being driven to class, is there?” he asked, more to himself than to her. He looked at his watch and sighed. There wasn’t much of a point of going anymore. He would just have to hope that he could get the notes from someone.

 

 

The drive was surprisingly short, though John couldn’t figure out where they had stopped. It seemed to be in front of some sort of warehouse. He got out, and walked toward a tall figure leaning on an umbrella.

“Have a seat, Mr. Watson,” the man said. John looked at him with furrowed brows for a few seconds before he finally remembered.

“You’re Mycroft Holmes,” he said. If Mycroft was surprised that John knew him he didn’t show it. He merely gave an oily smile.

“Yes,” was his answer, his gaze not leaving John’s. Refusing to lose, John didn’t let himself look away from the man’s light blue eyes, so similar to Sherlock’s, yet so very different as well.

“What are your intentions with Sherlock Holmes?” Mycroft asked after their silent battle for dominance.

“I don’t have any intentions with Sherlock Holmes,” John said, not altogether truthfully, but he wasn’t about than admit to Sherlock’s brother that they had just had quite amazing sex, and John was planning on doing it again as soon as the chance arose. Mycroft’s eyebrows raised the smallest amount, and his smile shifted into something more resembling a grimace.

“You’ll forgive me for not believing you,” Mycroft said. “Particularly after last night. In fact, that’s twice now that Sherlock has spent the night at with you. Shall we expect a happy announcement soon?”

“Me and Sherlock are friends,” John insisted. He supposed he should have expected this. He wasn’t even sure why he was surprised that he was getting the stereotypical older brother talk.

And of course Sherlock’s brother _would_ do it in the most dramatic way possible. Mycroft gave a small, dry chuckle, even though he clearly wasn’t amused.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that either, Mr. Watson. You’ve met Sherlock, how many friends do you imagine he has?”

“At least one,” John replied stubbornly. Mycroft looked at him oddly.

“You aren’t afraid,” he commented.

“You aren’t very frightening,” John answered, his fists clenching themselves at his sides. Mycroft gave that dry, unamused chuckle once more.

“Yes well, you certainly appear to have lasted longer than the other ones, I’ll give you that,” Mycroft observed, and John tried not to panic. What other ones? “Do you plan to continue your association with my brother?”

“I could be wrong,” John said, somewhat angrily, “but I believe that’s none of your business.”

“If you do continue being…friends, with Sherlock Holmes I would be happy to pay you a significant sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

“Why?”

“You recently lost that rugby scholarship didn’t you? I imagine working at that coffee shop must be hellish.”

“In exchange for what?” John asked.

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel…uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“You want to me spy on your brother for you?” Mycroft’s only reply was to raise his eyebrows slightly. “Why?” John asked.

“We have a…difficult relationship. I worry about him. Constantly.”

“No.”

“I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Don’t bother,” he said, turning away and making his way back to the car.

“You’re very loyal, Mr. Watson,” Mycroft called.

“Nope, just not interested,” John tossed back over his shoulder. He left Mycroft standing there without looking back.

“I’m to take you home,” the woman said into her phone. John looked at her, then to the car, and smiled tightly.

“No thanks,” he said, “I’ll take a cab.”

 

 

When Sherlock woke up, the bed was empty. He rolled over, and his fingers encountered a small piece of paper. He brought it closer to his eyes and recognized John’s hasty, messy handwriting:

_Had to run to class and didn’t want to wake you. There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry. Eat some even if you aren’t. Text me when you wake up. :)_

He crumpled the note in his fist, confused. He would have thought that John would want to be rid of him, now that they had both gotten what they wanted. He looked thoughtfully at the note again and decided it was a harmless courtesy. John was a nice guy, after all.

He slid out of bed, stumbling a bit when his head spun from standing too quickly. He located all of his clothes and put them on, ignoring the ache in his arse. It was a good kind of ache, but it made him think of John.

His phone buzzed when he was leaving and he looked down to see, with some surprise that John had texted him.

**so i just met ur brother**

Sherlock’s eyebrows collided in the middle of his forehead. Of course Mycroft would want to get involved in things that had absolutely nothing to do with him.

_Did he offer you money to spy on me?_

**yes**

_Did you take it?_

**of course not**

_Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time._

**lol i’ll b home in a few. u still there?**

_No, I just left._

In truth, Sherlock was only now, leaving the bedroom, but he figured that seeing each other wasn’t the best idea.

**oh ok. c ya later?**

_Okay_

Sherlock paused when he stepped into the bright morning sunlight, squinting slightly. He had been planning on going to school (it had been a bit too long since he had been there last), but now the prospect seemed nauseating.

He shrugged and hailed a cab to go anyway, as he didn’t know what else to do. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was that he did before he met John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next time friends!


	8. Sometimes he honestly does the stupidest stuff with very minimal explanation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! I know it's not Sunday, but it's Monday, which is really super close to Sunday, so I feel like I should get points for that.
> 
> You may have noticed that I now have a (rough) estimate as too how long this will continue. That is because, friends, I have finally bullied myself into making a (rough) outline, and (sort of) know what I'm doing and what will be happening with our favorite boys.
> 
> Some trigger warnings: mentions of drug usage and addictions

Sherlock sighed sharply out of his nose, wondering about the possibility of being bored to death. He knew it was something that was as of yet, unheard of, but as his history professor droned on and on, Sherlock felt he might soon be making some scientists question that theory. He almost reached for his phone.

Almost.

But then he got ahold of himself and quickly pushed the thought from his mind. His mind which was really not responding as it should. He was supposed to have forgotten all about John by now. It had been three days since what Sherlock was loosely calling The Greatest Night of All of Existence (the name was a work in progress). They had not seen each other once, and only texted very minimally. John had tried texting, but Sherlock had either ignored them, or gave curt, one-worded responses.

It didn’t take long for John to get the hint.

Yet he was surprisingly persistent. As were the _feelings_. The very word made Sherlock grimace. They wouldn’t go away. It was still fairly early, however. They had probably simply not waited long enough. The _feelings_ would pass soon enough.

He glared at his professor from under his dark fringe, trying to tune into what he was saying. He didn’t try very hard, however. He knew he had exceeded all expectations by simply showing up for three days in a row. If he was being completely honest, he could barely believe that he had managed to show up. He had almost stayed home, but his family was there and they would ask questions and bother him, and all he wanted was to be alone.

Alone was what he had. He loved being alone. There was no one to ask stupid questions or call him names or slow him down. Alone protected him.

He seemed to have forgotten that in his time with John.

Which was ridiculous. Completely absurd. He and John hadn’t even been friends for that long. How could he have possible have forgotten how he had been before John?

The shrill tone of the bell broke through his thoughts. He gathered his things and joined the crowd of his classmates struggling to get out the door and to their next class. A stray elbow found it’s way into Sherlock’s ribs, and he gasped despite himself. He kept walking, trying to ignore what would surely become a bruise.

He got as far as to take one step into his next class before abruptly turning around and walking away. He kept walking until he was out of the building. He wasn’t sure where he wanted to go, but he knew that if he had to sit through another class, he would surely perish from boredom eating away at his brain.

No one stopped him as he exited the building—not that he expected them to. He hailed a cab, ignoring the way the cabbie looked at him strangely when he took too long deciding where he wanted to go. He finally said the address of a old haunt he had had before he had met John to occupy his time with.

“You sure this is the right place, mate?” the cabbie asked when they pulled up in from of what was clearly a crack house. Sherlock only gave a nod and the money.

“Oi, Shezza!” Sherlock turned to see the gaunt, grinning face of Billy Wiggins. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“What do you have?” the words were out of Sherlock’s mouth before he could stop them, and he was watching in slow motion as Billy reached inside his torn, stained coat and pulled out a small package filled with white powder.

“Good quality, just the way you like it,” he said, grinning all the while. Sherlock stared at the package, trapped. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew some bills, thrusting them into Billy’s waiting hands. He took the package and couldn’t quite suppress the shiver that went through his body at the weight of it in his palm.

He whirled away and left without another word. There was no way he’d be able to get a cab, so he slipped the package into his coat pocket and began walking. He knew it was probably safer to just get high in the house rather than walking in broad daylight with a bag of cocaine in his pocket, but he wanted it to be good. It would be his first time getting high in weeks (how _had_ he managed to last that long?) and he didn’t want for it to happen in some dirty house surrounded by junkies.

He clenched his hand around the small bag inside his coat. What was he doing? He was clean. He didn’t need the cocaine, if he was entirely honest with himself (and he always tried to be), he only went back to the house and bought it because of habit. Because it was what he had always done when he had reached this level of boredom, and he wasn’t sure what other options he had.

The feeling of it in his pocket was suddenly a weight dragging him down. He could imagine the disappointed look John’s face if he ever found out about Sherlock’s lapse in judgement.

A moment after he had the thought he clenched his teeth and squared his shoulders. He was done with John. They weren’t even friends anymore, it was time for him to stop thinking about him like they were anything more. John’s disappointment meant nothing to him now. 

Anyway, even if he was stopped by the police, it would only mean a headache for Mycroft, and that was only a good thing.

 

 

 

 

The skin on his lips was worn raw from his teeth, but he couldn’t seem to make himself stop. There was something horribly wrong.

It had been three days since John had seen Sherlock, and he was so stressed he couldn’t think about anything else. It wasn’t the fact that they hadn’t seen each other for so long—they had gone days without seeing each other before, that wasn’t the problem. No, the problem was that Sherlock was appearing completely incapable of answering his damn phone.

Which was ridiculous, because Sherlock never went anywhere without it. It was practically glued to his hand. He always answered every text, if only for an excuse to insult someone. The silence was slowly (or perhaps not so slowly) driving John insane.

 

**come to the coffee shop**

 

He sent the text before he could think more about it. He just wanted an explanation, dammit. If Sherlock had just wanted sex, then why did he go through the effort of becoming John’s friend first?

 

_I can’t, I’m busy. SH_

 

John sighed sharply (sharply enough that one could almost call it a growl, but he was in public, and he was working, so it most certainly was just a sigh) when he read the text.

 

**Sherlock, i dont fucking care. come to the coffee shop, we need to talk**

 

John could almost hear Sherlock’s eye roll, and when his phone buzzed again, seconds later, he fully expected to see Sherlock make some other excuse and not answer for the rest of the night.

 

_Fine. Be there in ten. SH_

 

The breath whooshed out of John’s lungs in a great gust of surprise. Then he grinned to himself.

He was going to finally see Sherlock. After three days of absolutely nothing, he was finally going to be able to talk to him again. Objectively, he understood that three days wasn’t really that long of a time to go without talking to someone, but the fact that it was the three days directly after they had sex for the first time, and the fact that John had no idea what was going on, and the fact that it was _Sherlock_ , who John was quite sure he was possibly falling in love with.

 

 

 

 

Sherlock walked slowly, taking his time. When he stuck his arm out, a cab immediately pulled up next to him, and he cursed quietly. He would have remarked upon the fateful irony that cabs only came quickly when you didn’t want them to, but there was no one to remark to. And anyway, he didn’t believe in fate.

When he strode into the coffee shop a few minutes later (after mentally preparing himself for a second outside, but no one had to know about that), his breath hitched when he saw John standing behind the counter. He had paused before walking to prevent exactly that from happening, yet even his perfect photographic memory couldn’t do the real John justice.

“Hello, John,” he said, his voice admirably smooth. John swallowed visibly.

“Sherlock,” he replied.

“You told me to come.”

“I—I wasn't actually sure if you would,” John’s voice trembled slightly, but Sherlock didn’t mention it. He figured that John would now be officially “breaking up” with him (though they were never dating, and there was really no need for him to do this, but Sherlock knew John and he knew he would feel guilty if he didn’t). Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t.

“Dammit, Sherlock, will you please just tell me what’s going on? What I did wrong?” John asked, his blue eyes searching grey ones for an answer. Sherlock looked away, breaking eye contact. This wasn’t going the way he had initially thought it would. But that was okay, it was normal for John to want an explanation.

Sherlock shrugged, wincing as the movement disturbed the bruise he got earlier. John’s sharp eyes caught the reaction immediately.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice firm and offering no room for arguments. Of course, Sherlock tried anyway.

“Nothing, it’s fine,” he said, turning away. John eyed him, then cast a quick glance around the coffee shop to make sure everyone was taken care of. He decided everyone was fine for now, and stepped around the counter with the first-aid kit in hand.

“Come on, let’s go the bathroom, I’ll take a look at it.”

“No, John, I told you, it’s fine, it’s just bruise,” Sherlock protested. John grabbed his arm, and tugged him in the direction of the bathroom.

“Yeah, right I know what your ‘bruises’ look like,” John said, punctuating his words with a firmer tug that made Sherlock jerk forward, and before the taller boy could regain his balance, something small and white slipped from his pocket and landed on the floor with a soft and seemingly innocent _thump_.

“What. Is that?” John said, staring at it, breathing hard and controlled the way he only did when he was very, very mad. He looked calm enough, but his fingers were digging hard into Sherlock’s arm where he was still holding it.

“John, please, I know how this looks, but”—

“Oh, that’s good, I’m glad that you know how this looks, I’m glad I’m not the only one thinking how much it bloody looks like you had a bag of cocaine in your pocket!” John’s voice was hard, yet quiet, and his breaths were coming in short little bursts. He still wasn’t looking at Sherlock.

“John please, it’s not like that, I wasn’t going to use it”—

“Then what were you planning on doing with it?” John asked, finally raising his gaze to Sherlock’s face. What he saw there must have convinced him of something, because he relaxed his iron grip on Sherlock’s arm and cast a look around to make sure no one noticed the employee who had almost completely lost his temper in the middle of the coffee shop.

No one appeared to have noticed, so he bent down to pick up the bag, and walked to the bathroom, not having to look back to know that Sherlock was following.

When they were alone, John immediately rounded on Sherlock.

“Explain,” he said shortly, placing the first-aid kit and bag of cocaine on the counter and crossing his arms. Sherlock sighed, not meeting John’s hard, blue eyes. It was an expression that Sherlock had never seen directed at him before, and it shocked him just how much it disturbed him to see it.

“I was…bored,” Sherlock winced when he saw John roll his eyes and huff out a breath, but he pressed on. “I went to a place I used to hang out, just for something to do, really, and I saw an old friend there, and he sold it to me, but I was never actually planning on using it.”

“Then why did you buy it?” John asked, clenching his fists. Sherlock shrugged again. He didn’t have a good answer, so he didn’t say anything. In truth, he really didn’t know what he had been trying to accomplish by shooting up. He just knew that what he usually did to alleviate boredom (visit John, usually), was unavailable, so he had to settle for the next best thing—cocaine.

“Dammit, Sherlock, talk to me. You said you were clean, what the hell made you go back?”

“I told you, John I was bored. Everything was too loud and too much, I needed something to make everything go quiet, I needed some relief. Cocaine makes everything speed up until it’s running at the same pace as I am, and I needed that,” he said, waving his hands as he tried to explain. He knew doctorly, perfect John would never understand his need for it, but he tried to explain it anyway.

“You seemed to be doing all right these past couple months,” John countered.

“I had…distractions,” Sherlock said, willing himself not to blush as he thought about the amount of time he had spent fantasizing about John’s eyes, skin, hair—everything about him, really.

“Distractions?” John asked, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock blushed a little deeper.

“Being sexually attracted to you was a sufficient distraction for the time being, yes,” Sherlock said, his voice cold and emotionless in the way it only got when he was feeling particularly emotional. John gaped.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, but now that we’ve both got it out of our systems, so to speak, the boredom came back. And this time I had no distractions.” John gaped some more.

“Got it out…? So that’s what that was?” he asked, his voice thin and brittle. Sherlock gave a sharp nod.

“Of course, what did you think?”

“Right,” John huffed out, looking away from Sherlock. “Right.” Well at least he now knew why Sherlock had never texted—apparently he thought that they had just had to “get it out of their systems.” And that’s all John was to Sherlock—just a distraction to alleviate boredom “for the time being.” Right.

“So , now you’re going back to cocaine.” It wasn’t a question. Sherlock sighed.

“I suppose so, I can try to stay clean, but it only really lasts for so long until I have to use again,” he said emotionlessly. He knew he would tell people (Mycroft) that he was doing better and getting clean, but he had made a point to always be honest with himself.

“And you’re okay with that?” John asked, an edge in his voice that Sherlock didn’t really like.

“Yes, of course, why does it matter to you?” he exclaimed. “We had sex, we’re barely even friends, what more do you want?” For a few moments John could only stare at Sherlock in shock.

“Is that what you think? What you want?” John forced the words past his teeth, formed them with unwilling lips. The last thing he wanted to do was to give into Sherlock’s lunacy, but he didn’t know what else to do. Looking at the pack of cocaine, all he could think of was Harry, always saying she was getting sober and always inevitably falling off the wagon again. Loving her was hard, but he was her brother, that’s what he did.

All John could see was the look that had seemed to be forever carved onto Clara’s face whenever he saw her. He had talked to her a few times, but Clara was unable to let go, because every time she did, Harry pulled her back with promises that _this_ time would be _the_ time. It was a strange mix of hopefulness and despair a horrible never-ending cycle that John refused to be pulled into again.

“Of course,” Sherlock said with a sharp nod. John sighed.

“All right, then,” he said, clearing his throat. He grabbed the bag of cocaine from the counter. “You’re not getting this back, though.” He marched over to the toilet and emptied the bag into it before flushing it all away. Sherlock didn’t mov or say anything as John basically flushed his money down the toilet.

“Now, what did you want me for?” Sherlock asked, his voice smooth and even, as though nothing had just happened. As though that had been perfectly normal. John cleared his throat again.

“What?” he replied, still not quite able to process that his friend was no longer his friend, and apparently had never even _been_ his friend. Sherlock sighed impatiently and rolled his eyes.

“You told me to come here. In fact, you were rather firm about it. Well, I’m here now, what did you want to talk about?”

“Right, um never mind, it wasn’t important,” John said shaking his head and turning away. He just wanted Sherlock to leave now. He could hardly bear to be in his presence anymore.

“Are you sure?” he asked, cocking his head to the side, as if _John_ was the one acting strange here.

“Yes,” John said in a short, clipped voice. He turned and went back into the shop, not even wanting to look at Sherlock anymore. Only when his back was turned did Sherlock allow his mask to falter a little bit. In truth, it did hurt a bit, though he knew it was for the best.

When John walked back to his spot behind the counter, a customer walked in.

“Hi, welcome to Speedy’s,” he said, forcing a smile. He saw the bathroom door open out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t let himself look over even when he paused just before slipping out of the shop. John tried not to show on his face just how much his heart dropped as the last of the cheerful bells chimed throughout the shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh I know, the angst! Please don't hate me, and please don't worry, I promise, this story will have a happy ending!
> 
> Until next time, my lovelies!


	9. He's a right arse, but luckily his friends aren't nearly as idiotic as he likes to think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Molly, how many times do I have to tell you that I’m fine before you’ll believe me?” he asked.
> 
> “Just once more,” Molly replied, her smile soft and shy. Sherlock sighed and didn’t answer stubbornly. Molly chuckled lightly after a few seconds. “Okay, fine, you win, I’ll let you sit there and sulk in silence while I do all the work. Again.”
> 
> “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha hello my good friends!! If you have commented asking me about updates - here it is and I'm sorry I haven't answered, I'm working on it. If you haven't commented asking me about updates - here it is, anyway!
> 
> A combination of starting college, and participating (and winning!) NaNoWriMo had led me to wanting to quit on our boys like the horrible trash person I am. Fear not, however, things have slowed down and I'm back at it! (hopefully for real this time, but no promises)
> 
> Consider this my holiday (whichever you celebrate)/series 4 present to you all!!

When the alarm rang out in dim room, Sherlock rolled over and turned it off with a grunt. He considered getting up for half of a second, before rolling back over and falling back asleep quickly. It had been days since he had last slept before he had finally collapsed onto his bed some hours ago. He had been fairly surprised that he had been able to stop his mind from thinking long enough to fall asleep at all. He must have been more tired than he thought.

When he woke again a few hours later, it was with heavy limbs and groggy thoughts. He blinked his eyes into focus, remembering why he hated sleeping. His thoughts had slowed to almost a crawl, and the feeling made him feel on edge and off-balance.

“Good afternoon, Sherlock,” his mother said when he entered the kitchen, still stumbling on unsteady feet. He could hear the mild disapproval in her tone that old him that she didn’t like that he was skipping class, but didn’t know about the drugs. He had that to thank John for, at least. He gave a grunt in response and tried to swipe a biscuit from the counter, but his mother’s wooden spoon came down with _crack_ upon his knuckles. He yelped, holding his injured hand and looking at her with wide eyes.

“No sweets before you eat something real,” she said sternly, pointing her spoon at him threateningly, ignoring the hurt puppy look on his face, knowing it was just an act. Sherlock dropped it seconds after he realized that it wouldn’t work.

“I don’t want to eat something real,” he groused, still nursing his hand.

“Well I’ve just made sandwiches, so you’re going to be eating some. It’s lunchtime, anyway.” Sherlock sighed, but didn’t argue, knowing it would be useless when his mother used that tone on him. She set down a plate on the table with a smug smile, and patted him on the cheek when he passed her.

“Don’t look so glum, Sherlock, it’s just a sandwich, not the end of the world.” Sherlock sat and tried not to show on his face how much he was enjoying the sandwich. A few minutes later his mother sat down across the table from him, holding a cup of tea in her soft hands.

“Why didn’t you go to school today?” she asked, blowing gently across the top of the cup. Sherlock looked down at his plate, not wanting to meet her eyes.

“I couldn’t.”

“Is it that friend of yours?” her voice was gentle and soothing. Sherlock glanced up and for a brief moment, he considered telling her everything. But then, the moment passed and he looked back down at his plate with a shrug. There were a few seconds of silence and Sherlock could feel her examining his expression and come to the conclusion that it would be best not to press him about it.

She began prattling on about something completely irrelevant to let him know that he could talk to her about it if he wanted to. He took a large bite of his sandwich to tell her that he knew that, he just couldn’t talk at that moment. She smiled softly so he knew that she forgave him for not being able to talk about it.

 

 

 

John buried his hands in his short hair and wished, before he even knew he was wishing it, that his hands were buried in Sherlock’s much longer curls, instead. Tearing his hands out of his hair in disgust, he glared down at his notes. He shouldn’t be thinking like that. No, he _couldn’t_ be thinking like that. It would drive him insane. Whatever he had had with with Sherlock was over now, and there was no use in dwelling on it. He glared down at his anatomy textbook as if it was personally responsible for Sherlock being an arse. How was he supposed to focus on the different parts of the body when all he could do was think about finding all of the spots on Sherlock’s body and kissing them until he forgot all about that horrible conversation in the coffee shop.

“John.” John lifted his head, smiling gratefully at Mike.

“Hey,” he replied, pushing the chair across from him out with his foot. Mike took the seat looking at him strangely.

“Mate, you do know that we live together, don’t you?” he said slowly. John looked at him and nodded, unsure where this was going. “So why did you ask me to meet you in the library?”

“It’s easier to focus here,” he said shrugging. He knew why he really came to the library, though he didn’t want to admit it even to himself. Didn’t want to admit to himself that even though he knew it would cause pain to knife right through his chest, he was hoping for a chance to see Sherlock, even if it was just a glance. Mike gave him another strange glance, but began puling out his materials anyway without another word.

The studying didn’t go particularly well, mostly because John kept craning his neck to see who was coming and going and then deflating every time he didn’t see the mop of curls towering over everyone else.

“Oi, you waiting for someone else, mate?” Mike finally said, dropping his pencil and whatever he had been saying before. John looked at him, really listening to him for the first time in almost a full hour.

“What’s that?” he asked blankly. Mike sighed, shaking his head.

“You’re looking for him, aren’t you?” he asked, looking at John accusingly.

“Who?” John replied innocently, pretending he wasn’t currently looking over Mike’s shoulder to check who had just come into the library.

“That bloke that burned our table and ate all my biscuits—what was his name again? Something long and weird,” Mike replied.

“Sherlock,” John said sullenly, annoyed that Mike caught on so quickly. He was rather hoping he wouldn’t have to explain what happened to his friend, but from the interested look on Mike’s face he could see that that wouldn’t be happening. He sighed and tried to avoid his gaze anyway, hoping that Mike would drop it, even though he doubted it.

“You are, aren’t you?” Mike pressed, smiling smugly. “Well, out with it then. What happened?”

“Nothing happ”—

“Sure as hell doesn’t look like nothing happened,” interrupted Mike, setting aside his study materials and leaning forward in his seat. John rolled his eyes, knowing he should never have thought that Mike would drop it. He gossiped like an old woman.

“Ok fine,” John said with a sigh, giving in. “We had sex”—

“Look at you, Johnny Boy!”

—“and now he’s not talking to me.”

“What do you mean?” Mike’s expressions changed with almost comic speed, lifting and dropping in a matter of seconds.

“He told me that the sex was just us ‘getting it out of our systems,’ and that he didn’t even want to be friends anymore,” John replied, trying to sound as casual as he could as he said it, not wanting to give away how much it actually hurt him.

“That tosser,” Mike said, clenching his fist angrily, looking around the library as though he expected Sherlock to enter right at that moment. To be fair to him, John had been doing it all afternoon, so he wasn’t alone. John shrugged, not wanting Mike to get all angry and worked up. Muscular from his rugby days, Mike was always looking for a fight, but John knew Sherlock got beat up enough as it was.

“It’s okay, though. I’m okay,” John said, trying for a reassuring smile, but from the look on Mike’s face he fell quite short.

“You sure?”

“Well, I am disappointed of course, but I’ll be fine,” he replied. Mike looked at him for another few seconds then nodded. He picked up his pencil and leaned over his notebook once more.

“Well, then I guess we better get back to studying then, or else I really will fail out of medical school.”

 

 

 

It was only after a full week and a half had gone by that Sherlock could finally begin to realize that something was wrong. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand what the problem was. He was supposed to have been over and done with John Watson ages ago. He was supposed to have forgotten him by then. He went through the motions of his days not being able to fully engage in even his most fascinating experiments because his mind was so stuck on the Problem. The Problem of John Watson.

It was consuming in a way that Sherlock had never experienced before, mostly because there was nothing he could do about it. He didn’t know why he couldn’t get over John and he had no previous knowledge about relationships of any sort to base his conclusions off of. He had never been one for friendships, or any other form of close personal attachment. He had no experience in dealing with the feelings that he had For John Watson.

Which was utterly ridiculous, because he didn’t have _feelings;_ couldn’t have feelings because it was grit in the perfect instrument of his mind. _Sentiment_ was something he had never had to deal with, so now that he was filled with so much of it, he was at a loss. The only thing that had come even close to what he was feeling was his relationship with Redbeard. That experience was so painful, however, that he shied away from it even now, so many years later. All memories of his childhood best friend and dog were locked away in a room so deep in his mind palace that he wasn’t altogether certain how to get back there - which was exactly as he liked it. Redbeard had taught him a valuable lesson and showed him that sentiment was a quality found in the losing side - giving evidence to what Mycroft had been telling him from day one. Beyond that, however, Sherlock didn’t like to think about it, the feelings still sharp and painful even now

It was a feeling, in fact, not unlike the one he got whenever he thought about John. Where there had been once been a warm, happy feeling that had filled him when he thought about him, now all he could see was the disappointed look on his face when he saw the cocaine, when he saw Sherlock as exactly who he was, rather than the picture that John had painted of his in his mind.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to jostle the thoughts from his head. The motion made his curls bounce around his face, and he impatiently ran his fingers through them, getting them back into position.

“Is everything okay?” Molly asked, her voice soft and high. Her hand was stretched towards Sherlock as though to offer comfort, but was too frightened to make the full journey to him.

“Yes,” he said curtly, not wanting to be dragged into a conversation. He didn't mind Molly, and if he was being completely honest a conversation with her would be far preferable to being left alone with his thoughts, but if he started acting interested she would really worry about his mental health and might be motivated enough to force him to talk about his _feelings._ Sherlock held back a shudder at the thought. The only thing worse than feeling sentiment was talking about it.

Molly retracted her hand, but gave him a look that said that she was still worried about him.

“You can talk to me if you need to, you know that, right?” Molly said so softly that Sherlock almost didn’t hear it, that it seemed like Molly wasn’t even certain that she wanted to be saying the words even as they were leaving her mouth. Sherlock gave a her a scathing look.

“Everything is fine,” he said, then paused, “or at least it would be if you didn’t insist on _talking._ ”

“Right, sorry,” she said pressing her lips tight together and ducking her head down to work on whatever mindless activity they were supposed to be working on. “Only, I thought that you’d be looking forward to today.”

“Why would I?” Sherlock sighed, resigning himself to the conversation. His usual methods of putting her off didn't work, so clearly she had something to say and wouldn’t rest until she said it. It really was _exhausting_ and he was reminded, once again, why he didn't have friends and why he worked so hard to keep it that way.

“It’s pig dissection day!” Molly replied, far too brightly. Sherlock looked up from his sulk long enough to realize that, sure enough, the professor was handing out small, pale, rubbery objects. She placed theirs on the desk in front of them, sparing a dirty look for Sherlock. She had liked him initially, his interest in (some) life forms and (some) biological processes quite apparent. During one of the times Mycroft had forced him to quit smoking however, Sherlock had snapped at her in front of the entire class and revealed her affair with another man and a penchant for calling him “daddy” in bed (he, of course, deduced that this stemmed from a childhood with an abusive, manipulative father, and he didn't hold himself back from revealing that to the rest of the class as well). He hadn’t been especially proud of that, but he blamed Mycroft and his need to meddle. It was his withdrawals from cigarettes that had caused him to be so irritable, after all.

Molly looked down at the dead pig fetus with an expression that was far too gleeful for looking at a corpse. Sherlock reviewed the new information carefully and stored it in his “Molly” drawer. He always knew that she was far from squeamish and intended to follow her father in the medical field, but he hadn’t known she would be so fascinated by dissecting the anatomy of a dead animal. He saw one of his classmates give her a strange look but Sherlock found that, if anything, this new information made him respect her more. People’s aversion to the dead was foolish and unnecessary. Death wasn’t contagious and the corpse would not be coming back to life (not that Sherlock hadn’t tried on a corpse or two).

“Dull,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, and leaned back in his chair, expecting Molly to do all the work, as she usually did.

“Dull? How is this dull?” Molly asked, looking up from the pig, her eyes wide behind goggles and a scalpel in her hand. Sherlock shrugged gracefully.

“I had already dissected three pigs by the time I turned seven, how much more do you think this one will teach me?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. He wasn’t lying and he couldn't hold back a smile when he remembered the disgusted look on Mycroft’s face. For all his bluster and supposed intellect, Mycroft was really as squeamish as a little boy who ran from spiders. He said that it was because he hated “leg work,” but Sherlock knew that the real reason was that even the sight of blood was enough to make him ill.

“That’s your problem then,” Molly said, pointing a finger at him. “You’re too smart for your own good. If you were just a bit stupider you’d have so much more fun.” Sherlock looked at her with horror in his eyes, aghast.

“And become like the rest of you idiots?” he exclaimed waving a hand around the classroom. Some of the students raised their heads from their work to glare at him, but most were used to his words and merely ignored him. “I can’t think of a worse fate.”

“Have you ever had fun?” Molly asked. She was smiling, but Sherlock could see that the question was a genuine one. He rolled his eyes.

“Of course I’ve had fun,” he replied, trying not to show how hard he was thinking, trying to remember a time when he was genuinely having fun. “Like for example when you weren't talking, that was very fun.”

“Sherlock, I’m serious,” Molly said, the smile morphing into something that horribly resembled concern. He rolled his eyes again.

“Molly, how many times do I have to tell you that I’m fine before you’ll believe me?” he asked.

“Just once more,” Molly replied, her smile soft and shy. Sherlock sighed and didn’t answer stubbornly. Molly chuckled lightly after a few seconds. “Okay, fine, you win, I’ll let you sit there and sulk in silence while I do all the work. Again.”

“Good.” Sherlock crossed his arms tight across his chest and glared at the table in front of him as though he was hoping to set it on fire with his eyes alone. Now that Molly had finally shut up, he could think more on The John Problem. He knew that he had to do something about it, but for the life of him, he couldn't understand what. He wondered if he should ask Molly for help, but then shuddered at the idea when he thought of the conversation. Too painful to even think of enduring. He knew his mother would be willing to help if he tried to talk to her about it, but that was another conversation to unbearable to even think about. It was completely ridiculous because the person he would ordinarily go to to ask about human emotions was precisely the reason he was having to ask.

He clenched his fists and started when he heard a sharp _snap._ He looked down at his hand to see the remains of a pencil in his uncurled fist. He had forgotten than he had been holding it. He looked up to see Molly looking at it worriedly.

“Sherlock”—

“I’m _fine_ ,” he snarled, before standing and whipping his school bag onto his back violently. He stomped from the room, not giving a damn about the professor or Molly or the unfinished dissection. Molly was more than capable of finishing it herself, and he didn’t care about the grades.

He didn’t think about where he was going, he just kept putting one foot in front of the other without lifting his head to see where he was going. When he did finally stop and lift his head, he already knew where he was, though he wished he didn’t. He stared up at the cheerful words above the door of the coffee shop resentfully.

“Oh, hello dear,” said a kind-looking woman as she stepped from the flat right next to the coffee shop. She was holding a large cardboard box and breathing heavily. Sherlock almost turned away, but she called him back. “Be doll, darling, and grab the door for me please?”She smiled at him and he sighed and closed the door behind her. “Were you coming in?” she nodded to the coffee shop.

“No,” he replied, turning away once more before he caught something about her that made him turn back. “Your husband’s involved in a drug cartel.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “But you already knew that.”

“Well, of course I did, what other business was he to have in Florida?” she replied, seeming annoyed, but Sherlock saw that she wasn't annoyed at him for bringing it up, more at her husband.

“You’re hoping he gets caught.” It wasn’t a question. The woman looked at him with sharp eyes. Looking at her closer, Sherlock saw that the kind-looking exterior was hiding a sharp, intelligent woman.

“I never did love him,” she admitted by way of answer. Sherlock was seized with a sudden idea.

“I can help,” he said, the words feeling strange in his mouth. It wasn’t often that he offered to help anyone, but this was looking more and more interesting by the second.

“How?” she asked, looking at him shrewdly.

“I’ll go to Florida and make sure he gets caught,” he said. He wasn’t sure how he would do it, but going to America to help some woman he had just met seemed like something that would be good for him at the current moment. He had always had an interest in crime solving. When he thought back to the Carl Powers case of his youth, the excitement of finding new clues and putting them together was something he had thoroughly enjoyed. He thought back to his conversation with Molly and wondered if that had been what she was referring too when she had asked if he had ever had fun. He thought that he had had fun working on the Carl Powers case, even though the end of it still frustrated him to no end.

“I want death row for him, you hear me?” the woman said sternly, her eyes suddenly going hard. “He deserves nothing less.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, nodding. The woman’s eyes softened once more and she smiled broadly.

“What’s your name, then?” she asked.

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, Sherlock, my name is Mrs. Hudson, and if you give me just a second to put this box down, we can talk about the details.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't pretend to know when the next update will be, but i promise it's coming!
> 
> come visit me on my tumblr (astronautsxandxaliens.tumblr.com) to talk about series 4 and other things dear lord everyone hold onto your heads WE HAVE THREE DAYS LEFT!!!
> 
> Until next time my lovelies!


	10. His name is Sherlock Holmes and he's a forensic scientist for Scotland Yard, I promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thought about what John would say if he saw him roll his eyes, and then did it anyway, just to spite the imagined John in his mind. He wasn’t with Sherlock and that was good. If only his heart would listen to what his brain told it, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my lovelies! Once again, I apologize for the lack of updates, though I have no new excuses and you'll all just have to live with the fact that I'm a terrible human being.
> 
> Some trigger warnings: description of the case and such, but nothing gory

With (slightly) trembling fingers, Sherlock presented his ticket and passport to the bored looking security guard. Sherlock didn’t blame her for being bored, as he looked around the room there was absolutely nobody of any interest at all. For the amount of security that went into flying, he was standing in a room with a very limited amount of people who were even remotely capable of blowing up a plane, and Sherlock was one of them. Most of the others were security guards.

“Airport security is ridiculous,” he said, leaning down closer to Mrs. Hudson’s ear. She giggled at him.

“Oh yes, I once brought pocket knife on board a plane with me, but when we landed, they had seized my things because of a vibrator had gone off in my luggage! Imagine that! A sex toy begin more dangerous than a knife.” She shook her head and chuckled, and Sherlock looked at her with a newfound respect, more for bringing knife onto a plane than for owning a vibrator (he had already deduced about the vibrator).

 When they had made it out of the (ridiculous and unnecessary) security, Mrs. Hudson handed him both of their boarding passes and left him in charge of finding the right gate. Sherlock did so with no problem, of course, airports were designed with even the most imbecilic of people in mind. Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes at them all, shuffling along with no more activity in their brains than ants. He thought about what John would say if he saw him roll his eyes, and then did it anyway, just to spite the imagined John in his mind. He wasn’t with Sherlock and that was _good._ If only his heart would listen to what his brain told it, however.

The plane ride was dull, as was expected, but Sherlock brought a book about honey bees that had some fascinating up close photographs of the bees and their hives. Mrs. Hudson took one of her “herbal soothers” and fell asleep immediately. She rested her head on Sherlock’s shoulder, which meant that he couldn’t move his arm very comfortably, but he didn’t mind. There was one interesting moment when a couple, unbeknownst to all the other passengers, had sex in the bathroom of the plane.

Sherlock looked down at Mrs. Hudson to tell her, before he remembered that she was asleep. He knew that telling Mrs. Hudson wasn’t what he wanted anyway. She was a wonderful lady, and he was grateful for her asking his help, but he ached to be able to tell John about it—to tell John about everything. He ached to see his eyes crinkle up as he smiled, he ached to hear his infectious giggle—the one that was different every time depending on what made him laugh, and Sherlock swore that there was a specific giggle for when Sherlock made a deduction that made him laugh.

He sighed bitterly. He was supposed to be over this by now. He was tired of thinking about John, he was tired of thinking about how he was tired of thinking about John. He had hoped that perhaps the further away from him that he got, the easier it would be, yet here he was, on an airplane to America and still thinking about him. He buried himself angrily in his book and tried to get reabsorbed in the up-close pictures and the complexities of the lives of bees, but it wasn’t the same. 

Sherlock shifted in his seat and checked the time on his phone, wishing the plane ride would end soon.

 

 

 

 

It was all Bill’s fault, it really was. John had been planning on a quiet night in with some leftover Chinese and a few Bond films, but Bill had been adamant.

“Come on, John, it’s been so long since you’ve come out with us,” Bill had said over the phone.

“I know, but I just really don’t feel like”—

“Look, Mike’s told me about your bloke, okay, and I’m sorry, mate, but you can’t just keep locking yourself away in your apartment and hoping the next Bond film will hold all the answers to your problems.” The words came rushing through the speaker of John’s phone as though the words were burning Bill’s mouth and he wanted them out as soon as possible. John sighed, looking guiltily at the stack of Bond films sitting next to him.

“Bill”—

“No, wait, John, look I know you don’t want to do anything right now, but I’m telling you, that going out is exactly what you need right now. Find yourself a cute little piece of ass for the night and forget that arsehole,” Bill interrupted, almost pleading, now. John sighed. He didn’t want to go out with the boys tonight, but he knew that they would worry if he didn’t. With one last, longing look towards Bond and Chinese, John sighed again.

“Fine, fine, I’ll come out with you guys,” he acquiesced. He could hear Bill’s grin through the phone.

“Great, me and some of the others will come pick you and Mike up at around nine,” he said, before quickly hanging up, not wanting to be on the phone long enough for John to change his mind.

So, it really was all Bill’s fault that John was now in a random girl’s apartment and she was kissing down his neck and getting closer and closer to his chest and he knew that nothing would be able to happen. Perhaps Bill found it easy to get with “a cute piece of ass for the night,” and perhaps had things just ended with anyone besides Sherlock, John would be able to do it too. But it was _Sherlock,_ and how was John supposed to find anyone after that? How could anyone else, anyone _ordinary,_ possibly compare? He felt bad for the girl whose apartment he was at.

“Hey, wait, sorry,” he mumbled, pushing her away. She looked up at him with eyes glassy with alcohol.

 “What’s wrong?” she slurred, releasing a puff of breath that smelled like cheap vodka and sweat.

“I can’t do this,” he replied, buttoning up his shirt and extricating himself from her grasp. “It was nothing you did, I just…” he trailed off, unsure of what to say. He and Sherlock had never been in a relationship, so he couldn’t even say that he had just gotten out of a relationship.

 “That’s okay,” she replied, her words still slightly slurred. “Billy told me that you’ve been having a hard time.” She smiled brightly at John, as though that was supposed to make him feel better. Part of him was angry at Bill for getting involved the way that he did, but another part of him had known it from the start. As soon as they got to the party, she had been all over him, and the boys were all suspiciously absent from the moment she started dancing on him. He wanted to be angry at his friends for it, but he knew they were just trying to help, and if the situations were reversed, he probably would have asked a friend to do the same thing.

“Thanks,” he replied, wishing he could remember her name. She seemed like a nice girl. “Would it be too much to ask for you to not tell Bill about this?” She smiled slyly at him, tucking a piece of dark brown hair behind her ear.

“Are you asking me to lie for you?” she asked, her coy look somehow not marred by the fact that she was so drunk she could barely stand up on her own. John was suddenly very glad that he wasn’t going to sleep with her, and not just because of Sherlock.

“No, actually, that’s okay, I don’t mind,” he said, eager to get home. He checked his watch and figured he might even have some time to eat his Chinese and watch at least half of a Bond movie. She giggled at him one last time and gave him a parting waggle of her fingers.

“Goodnight, John, I hope things get better,” she said, not sounding particularly upset about the turn of events.

“Thanks…” he replied, trailing off, wishing he could remember her name for the life of him. She smiled once more, this time with a hint of understanding behind it.

 “Jeanette,” she said.

“Thanks, Jeanette,” he said before ducking out of her apartment with relief, and tried not to look too far into the fact that he had just denied sex with a beautiful girl in favor of a night alone with Chinese takeout and James Bond.

  

 

 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes and I’m a forensic scientist with Scotland Yard, and I’m telling you, there is no way that is a murder suicide,” he spat out, unbelieving that somehow, the American police were even more idiotic than the Scotland Yard. The man he was talking to (John probably would have remembered his name, but to Sherlock he was only an inconvenience) visibly struggled not to roll his eyes.

“Now if you had some hard evidence that would support that, I would be happy to listen to you Mr. Holmes. Until then, I would ask that you keep your speculations to yourself.”

“They are not ‘ _speculations,’_ they are _deductions_ , and I should think it would be quite obvious! The gun in the man’s hand doesn’t even match the gun that gave him that wound! The killer obviously put the dead man’s own gun in his lap so that his fingerprints weren’t anywhere near the crime scene,” Sherlock replied scathingly.

“Thank you for your input, we will test both the gun and the wounds accordingly,” said the man, clearly forcing the courteous words through gritted teeth. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“If I’m right, will you call me again?” he asked. The last thing he wanted to do was let these bumbling fools oversee testing anything, but he didn’t have any sort of equipment here, and he really didn’t think this man would be allowing him use of their lab any time soon.

“If you’re right, we shall re-examine the evidence and act as we see fit,” the man replied.

“Which means ‘no,’” Sherlock muttered under his breath so that only Mrs. Hudson could hear him. She cast him a sympathetic look, but had no more control over the situation than he did. “Will you know by tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t say for sure right now, it depends on how the labs are doing right now,” the man said, far too smug to be anything close to sorry.

“We shall be back tomorrow then,” Sherlock said, smiling brightly into the man’s dismayed face. “Until that time, we shall be doing your jobs for you, and finding your murderer.” Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson left the man glaring after them and Sherlock couldn’t help but looking over at Mrs. Hudson and smiling a bit. She shook her head at him, but returned his smile. 

“How do propose we catch him? My husband isn’t the type to confess, and he certainly wouldn’t do it to me,” she asked when the left the house. Sherlock looked up and down the street, checking if there were any cameras that could have caught someone coming up to the house. He saw nothing and was mildly disappointed, but not surprised. He did, however, notice a homeless woman across the street, sitting under a tree. He ran across the street without checking to see if any cars were coming and left Mrs. Hudson swearing in his wake. He didn’t pay her any attention; he was focused on the homeless woman.

“How’s the view?” he asked, pulling a few bills from his pocket. Luckily, he and Mrs. Hudson had stopped at to exchange their money at the airport. The woman looked up at him suspiciously.

“Alrigh,’” she said, her eyes not leaving his hand as he reached down to drop the bills in her cup. He pulled his phone out and pulled up the picture that Mrs. Hudson had sent him of her husband. He showed the homeless woman his screen.

“Has this man entered that house today?” he asked. She looked at the screen, then up at him, then at the screen again.

“He mighta,” she replied with a shrug. Sherlock sighed and dropped a few more bills into her cup. She smiled at him with a mouth full of broken teeth. “Y’know, now that you mention it, I did see him here earlier today. He walked right into the house like he owned the damn place, made a couple of loud sounds and left in quite a hurry.” Sherlock gave a real smile for the first time since he ended things with John.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said suddenly, her voice urgent in a way that Sherlock hadn’t heard before. He turned to her and saw that she was staring down at her ringing phone with a look of great displeasure mixed with something like fear.

“Answer it,” he said immediately. She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

“It’s”—

“I know who it is, now answer it,” he said wanting to be gentle, but not wanting to miss a chance to listen to the suspect. “Put it on speaker.”

“Hello?” she said.

“Martha,” a male, greasy voice said from the phone. “I heard you were in town. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“I was going to surprise you. I know how much you love surprises,” Mrs. Hudson replied, doing a very good job at keeping her voice steady.

“Well, now that you’re here, I need a favor,” Mr. Hudson said, with the air of someone who knows they will be getting their way. Mrs. Hudson looked questioningly at Sherlock, and he nodded at her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“When did you get into Florida? I need you to tell the police that we spent today together,” he said his voice surprisingly casual for someone asking their unloving wife to help cover up a double murder. Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock with something wicked in her eye and something almost like a smile in her lips. He grinned back at her, the second real smile since he ended things with John (not that he was keeping count or anything).

“Is everything okay?” she asked, feigning concern.

“Yes, or at least everything would be if you stopped questioning me and just did what I asked!” Mr. Hudson snapped. Sherlock glared at the phone with such heat that he wouldn’t have been surprised if Frank felt it though the phone.

“Of course, yes, I got to Florida last night, so I will have been able to spend today with you,” she said hurriedly. Her husband grunted into the phone and hung up. After Mrs. Hudson put away her phone, she and Sherlock stood looking at each other with identical grins on their faces.

From there, it was child’s play to prove that Frank Hudson had been at the scene of crime. When Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson strode into the crime scene the next morning, they were met with the slightly bashful expression on the man they spoke to the day before. The gun at the crime scene was, in fact, not the same gun that made the wounds. With only minimal gloating and smugness, Sherlock explained the whole case to those who were professionally trained to solve them.

“Which department in the Scotland Yard did you say you worked for?” asked one of the officers. She was holding a phone and had a hard expression on her face. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson exchanged glances, and Sherlock was suddenly quite certain that the Americans could take care of the rest of the case themselves.

“Forensics, but now that you mention it, we really should be going, they’ll be expecting me back in London very soon,” he said, turning around and flouncing away, his coat billowing out behind him dramatically. Mrs. Hudson hurried after him, and they left the police department giggling to each other.

“I can’t believe that actually worked!” Mrs. Hudson said, gripping onto Sherlock’s arm excitedly. He grinned at her.

“Me neither,” he admitted.

 

 

They stayed in Florida for the rest of the case, just to make sure that Mr. Hudson got the death sentence. When they found out that he did, they celebrated by going out to nice dinner.

“I don’t know how to thank you enough,” Mrs. Hudson said over plates of sushi. Sherlock shrugged, trying to look as though he wasn’t preening on the inside.

“You don’t have to thank me at all, just coming here and getting away from home is enough,” Sherlock replied, already thinking of how bored he would be once he got back home.

“Is there trouble with your parents?” Mrs. Hudson asked concernedly. Sherlock shook his head.

“No, and it isn’t Mycroft either, for once,” he said.

“Mycroft?" 

“My brother,” Sherlock explained. Mrs. Hudson nodded her understanding.

“Well, then what is it, dear?” she asked gently. Sherlock looked at her for a second before coming to a decision.

“I had this…friend, I guess,” he began with a shrug. “Then I started to feel things for him that were…more than friendly. And that doesn’t often happen to me, as I’m sure you can imagine.” Mrs. Hudson smiled softly at him.

“No, I imagine it doesn’t,” she said. Sherlock looked down at his plate and picked at his food. “So, what happened with this friend?”

“We aren’t exactly talking anymore,” Sherlock said, trying to ignore how tight his throat got at the words. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate so he wouldn’t have to look at Mrs. Hudson, but he looked up when her soft hand covered his on the table.

“I’m sure that you have your own reasons, but why don’t you just talk to him?” she asked, then paused. “Though considering what we were doing in Florida just now, I don’t know if I’m the best person to go for love advice.” She smiled softly at him, and he cleared his throat and moved his hand out from under hers.

“Well, if you’re looking for a replacement, that man over there has been looking at you the whole time we’ve been here,” he said, jerking his head toward the man in question. Mrs. Hudson turned and gave him a cursory once over, before shaking her head.

“When we get back to London, I’m never coming back to Florida; it really is a horrible state,” she said, looking around in distaste. Sherlock’s lips twitched in amusement.

“Then, let’s get back to London.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was particularly difficult to write (for reasons quite unknown, The Inspiration had decided to abandon me until I would literally have rather been writing anything else), so hopefully the next one will come easier.
> 
> As always, I love love love hearing from you guys either on here, or you can stop by and chat with me on tumblr at astronautsxandxaliens.tumblr.com
> 
> Until next time, my lovelies!


	11. When he does finally deign to accept and explain his feelings, things tend to turn out alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When their lips finally met, it was like worlds colliding, huge and explosive, but then they shifted and the sigh that John felt across his lips was a warm breeze through a sun-filled clearing, soft and so, so, sweet. He swiped his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and felt sparks dance between their mouths, and swore that it was the best thing he had ever felt. It was as though it was they had never touched before—their first time was hot and wonderful, but it was rushed and hard, where this was soft and warm and perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies!! Long time, no update and as always I am full to bursting with excuses none of which matter because I am here now!! As an extra reward for being extra super duper patient this chapter is like double the size of all the other ones so there please don't hate me :)

John finished washing the last mug with a sigh, checking his watch. He still had an hour left of his shift, but there was nobody left in the shop, so he sat down behind the counter, and rubbed a hand over his face. He got out his textbook and notes, knowing that he should be studying, since he didn’t have anything else to do.

He got about two flashcards in, when the door opened with its cheerful _ding._ He looked up, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Sherlock,” he choked out, forcing the word through a closed throat. He looked terrible; his face was drawn and haggard, his normally lovely curls hung limp around his face. John’s chest hurt from how beautiful he looked. It was the first time he had seen him in about two weeks, and he was shocked at how horribly his own imagination had failed to capture the emotions and energy he felt when he saw Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock said, and it sounded like a sigh, like a puff of breath that had been held in for so long and now had to be released—it couldn’t be kept in any longer. John thought he heard something like longing in it, but he figured that could have been wishful thinking.

“How are you?” John asked after a few seconds of silence, and then hated himself for how forced and awful it sounded. Sherlock looked down for a moment then pursed his lips the way he did right when he made an important decision.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he finally said, the words bursting out of him as though he had been keeping them in for far too long. He looked up at John through his lashes without saying anything else.

“Can’t do what?” John asked slowly, not daring himself to hope. He knew that if he got his hopes up, only for them to be crushed again he wouldn’t survive it—he just wouldn’t. Sherlock looked down at his hands and John noticed for the first time that they were shaking. He wanted to look at Sherlock’s pupils to see if he was high, but he wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m not high,” Sherlock said quietly, finally meeting John’s eyes. John winced.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean”—

“I know, and it’s fine John,” Sherlock said, dropping his eyes once more.

“Do you want to go sit down? Some coffee?” John asked. Sherlock nodded and turned away. Unsure what it was that he was nodding too, John simply followed, figuring that Sherlock wanted coffee he would tell him. They settled into their seats, and John’s heart ached from how familiar it all was.

“John, I”—

He cut off, seeming unable to find the right words. John waited patiently, knowing better than to interrupt when Sherlock was thinking hard.

“I went to Florida,” he said abruptly.

“As in America? Why?” John asked, wondering where this was going.

“No, John, Florida as in the UK,” Sherlock replied, and John couldn’t help but huff out a dry laugh.

“Okay, okay, why were you in America?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head, his curls shaking limply, with less than their usual life and chaos.

“That doesn’t matter, what matters is that I was in a different country, doing something _exciting_ and the whole time, all I could think about was how much I wanted you to be there,” Sherlock said, staring at his hands. John’s breath caught in his throat, and he swore he could feel his heart stuttering in his chest.

“Sherlock”—

“No, please, John, I know I said that we were done, and I know that, but I can’t seem take it in, and I know you probably don’t feel the same way, I just can’t do it anymore, I had to tell you”—

“Sherlock, wait,” John cut through the rambling, fighting to keep a smile off his face, hope bubbling up inside him despite his best efforts. Sherlock looked so flustered and adorable, John just wanted to kiss him. And he was starting to think that what Sherlock was trying to say was that he would like that, too. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” Sherlock breathed out, finally meeting John’s eyes. He said it so quietly that John almost thought he imagined it, but then John leaned forward towards him, and Sherlock didn’t move away—only kept his eyes locked on John’s.

When their lips finally met, it was like worlds colliding, huge and explosive, but then they shifted and the sigh that John felt across his lips was a warm breeze through a sun-filled clearing, soft and so, so, sweet. He swiped his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and felt sparks dance between their mouths, and swore that it was the best thing he had ever felt. It was as though it was they had never touched before—their first time was hot and wonderful, but it was rushed and hard, where this was soft and warm and perfect.

John pulled away slightly, searching Sherlock’s eyes to see if had done the right thing. Sherlock’s eyes were huge, the pupils blown wide.

“Alright?” John asked, slightly worried. Sherlock blinked, and drew in a ragged breath, and John swore he could feel the long lashes brush against his face, mere centimeters away from Sherlock’s.

“Better than,” Sherlock replied with a shy smile, before leaning in to kiss John chastely on the lips once more. “But now you’ll probably want to talk.”

John had to laugh at the obvious distaste in Sherlock’s voice. He sat back in his chair, grinning from ear to ear.

“Well, yes, we should do that,” he replied. Sherlock sighed and visibly kept himself from rolling his eyes. John giggled once more.

“Time away from you is, for me, not something I’d like to do again. So whatever you would like, I would have to insist that remain, acquaintances, at the least.”

 “And at the most?” John asked, lifting his chin to prepare himself for the worst. Sherlock didn’t answer for a long moment.

“John, if we are romantically or sexually involved I can’t imagine that you seeing someone else additionally would be something I would enjoy. However, if that’s something that you need, I won’t”—

“Sherlock, Jesus, of course I won’t be seeing anyone else, don’t be ridiculous. The thought of having anyone after having you is…boring, to be honest.” Sherlock’s lips twitched upwards in response. “But, if we are…romantically involved, as you put it, I have to say that I would not be okay with you seeing anyone else. In fact, I can be…quite possessive. I hope you are okay with that.”

“I’m sure I shall find some way to cope,” Sherlock replied, trying to sound as though it will be a great ordeal for him, but he couldn’t quite manage to keep his face straight. John rolled his eyes playfully. “So then, since we’re exclusive, what should I call you? I mean are we…” Sherlock trailed off looking uncertain. John smiled.

“Sherlock Holmes, are you asked me to be your boyfriend?” he asked, his smile growing into a grin when Sherlock began to blush.

“Well, if you would be, ahem, amendable”—

“Yes, I would be ‘amendable,’ you berk,” John replied, unable to stifle a giggle, before suddenly growing quite serious. “But, I do feel like a have to say that if I find out you’re using drugs again, it’s over.”

“Yes, I understand, and I don’t”—

“No, Sherlock don’t just brush this off, I’m serious. I have lived with my sister for long enough to know that the cycle of an addict is nothing I want to be a part of.”

“Of course. And I know that seeing me with drugs only a week or so ago must have been difficult, but please, you have to understand that I had no intention of using again. I was just…bored, and I know that that’s no excuse, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you and I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and then I couldn’t go and see you because I had said it was over…it won’t be happening again, I was just acting on habit.” Sherlock stopped himself when he could feel himself babbling, an awful habit he had never seemed to have an issue with until he met John. But he had to make him understand that there was no cycle for Sherlock—the cycle was over and there was no way that Sherlock would be going back to it, especially when he had John.

“Okay, yeah, okay,” John said, releasing a breath. He checked his watch and swore, standing from his chair. “I have to finish closing up…will you stay?” He looked at Sherlock with undisguised hope.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, standing as well, thinking that there wasn’t much that could pull him away from John’s side at that moment. Especially after the bright smile John gave him when he heard the answer. John stood in his tiptoes to kiss him again, sliding his hands under the large coat to pull him closer.

“God, I hate closing,” John said against Sherlock’s lips, feeling them lift into a smile.

“Then hurry up, so we can go back to your flat and you can ravish me,” he replied, only slightly joking. John caught Sherlock’s full lower lip between his teeth and bit down gently.

“I like the sound of that,” he said, his voice so low it was almost a growl. Sherlock shivered. John pulled away from him reluctantly and did the worst closing job he had probably ever done, but he couldn’t focus when he could feel Sherlock’s intense gaze on him the whole time (particularly when he bent over). When he finally finished with cleaning everything and getting everything ready for whoever would be working the next morning, he walked over to Sherlock and stood on his tiptoes, kissing him again, thinking that he would never get used to the feeling of his lips against his own.

“Are you finally done?” Sherlock asked, winding his long arms around John’s waist in a way that said that he wasn’t letting him go even if he wasn’t.

“Yes, I’m finally done,” he replied and he felt the sigh of relief against his face before Sherlock swooped down to kiss him once more. John reached up to card his hands through Sherlock’s thick curls, and was only slightly prepared for the whimper that left Sherlock’s lips when his hands reached his hair. John pulled back, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“That happened last time too,” he said, and Sherlock turned pink, not quite meeting John’s eyes.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied. John grinned.

“You reacted…particularly well when I touched your hair,” John said, running his hand through it again. Sherlock closed his eyes and visibly had to stop himself from melting into John. He bit his lip to keep the sound inside, but John kissed the lip free from his teeth, shivering when Sherlock whimpered into his mouth. “Don’t try stop that noise, please.”

“I still have no idea”—

He was cut off by John deepening the kiss, swiping his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and doing his best to make him forget all about trying to protest his inarguable reaction to John playing with his hair. Sherlock’s lips were so soft against his own, and his tongue so wickedly clever, that John was starting to forget every reason he had for not shagging Sherlock right there in the coffee shop.

“As much fun as that would doubtless be, I had planned on being ravished tonight, and that would be quite difficult during a quickie in the bathroom,” Sherlock said, against John’s lips. Then he pulled away with a thoughtful look on his face. “Though if that’s something you’d like to try some day, you would get no arguments from me.” John laughed, not letting himself seriously think about the idea, because he knew that if he started to think about shagging Sherlock over the counter, or in one of their chairs, or, god help him, in a bathroom stall, he would never be able to get them out of the coffee shop.

“Yeah, you’re right, let’s go,” he said quickly, taking Sherlock’s hand and leading them out of the shop, locking the door behind him. When Sherlock stuck his arm out to hail a cab, John was suddenly struck by similar it all was to the other time they had done this. He reached out and pulled Sherlock’s hand down before he even fully thought it through. Sherlock looked at him curiously. “It’s nice out, can we walk? It’s not far.”

“Alright,” Sherlock replied, looking perplexed. John took his hand again and swiped his thumb over Sherlock’s hand as they fell into step together.

“So what have you been up to for the past couple weeks? You said you went to Florida,” John said after a few moments. As much as he wanted to get to his flat as soon as he possibly could and completely take Sherlock apart, he had missed so much more of Sherlock than just sex. He had missed being able to talk to him and listening to his stories and commenting about how brilliant he was as they both pretended that it didn’t make Sherlock blush every time.

“John, it was incredible! This woman I met, Mrs. Hudson, her husband was to be executed”—

“You stopped a man from being executed?” John asked, incredulous. Sherlock looked at him, his face mischievous in the dim light of the streetlamps.

“No, I ensured it,” he said, and John couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

“Well, go on then, tell me about it, since you’re so clearly dying to,” he said, giving Sherlock’s hand a squeeze, feeling happier than he had in a long time.

He listened with interest as Sherlock told the story, wishing that he had been able to be there.

“I can’t believe that the police took you seriously,” John said. “I didn’t even know you had an interest in crime solving.”

“The police only took me seriously because they didn’t have any other good leads,” Sherlock replied. “And, I had tried my hand at it before a few years ago, but nothing ever came of it, so I let it go. I didn’t even think about it until Mrs. Hudson told me about her problem.”

“I’d like to meet Mrs. Hudson, she sounds like quite a woman,” John said, laughing, thinking that any woman who would trust a teenager enough to take him to Florida so that he could get her husband executed, was probably a person that John wanted to meet. Especially, if that teenager was Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t have very many friends in his life, and the fact that this woman would choose to be one after knowing him for such a short time said a lot about her ability to judge character, in John’s mind.

“She’d like you,” Sherlock said, smiling shyly down at John.

They reached John’s flat quickly enough, though they weren’t walking very fast, preferring to stroll and enjoy the night.

“Is Mike here?” Sherlock asked quietly as John led him to his bedroom.

“No, he’s at his girlfriend’s again,” he replied, smirking. “Why are you so concerned about my roommate’s whereabouts?”

“Oh, John, didn’t you know? I actually came here to have sex with him, not you, goodnight,” Sherlock said, turning away as though to leave, and John caught his sleeve and pulled him back with a laugh.

“Really? Is that so?” he asked, pressing himself closer to Sherlock, looping an arm around the thin boy to give his arse a squeeze.

“Oh, absolutely,” Sherlock replied, before he bent to press his lips against John’s licking at his lower lip for access to his mouth. John opened his mouth under Sherlock’s readily, doing his best to pull them into his room without breaking the kiss.

John pushed them onto the bed, but kept the kiss slow and soft, despite Sherlock’s best efforts to make it more intense.

“John, please,” Sherlock finally whined, sliding a hand up John’s shirt to feel the muscle of his stomach. John shivered, and began kissing down Sherlock’s neck, but kept his actions slow, straddling Sherlock’s slim hips. He had pulled himself away from Sherlock’s gorgeous neck the first time they had sex in favor of doing it fast and hard, but he didn’t want to have to do that this time. Instead, he took his time tracing his veins and nipping lightly and birthmarks and tasting different parts of his neck simply because he could. When he finally worked his way down to Sherlock’s collarbone, he was trembling and whimpering. Every time a sound passed through Sherlock’s lips, John could feel seconds before in his throat, and it was something he was not quite ready to give up.

“I could spend days on this neck alone,” John murmured into Sherlock’s smooth skin. Sherlock snorted.

“I think you just have,” he replied. John giggled and bit down on the skin in retaliation, pulling a choked gasp from Sherlock. He sat up to pull off Sherlock’s shirt and ran his hands across Sherlock’s pale chest, wondering how his imagination could have failed him so spectacularly. None of his wet dreams could possibly compare to the beauty of Sherlock there, in the flesh.

“Christ, you’re gorgeous,” he said, and then smirked when he saw the blush creeping up Sherlock’s chest.

“Take yours off too,” Sherlock said, ignoring the blush, as well, as John’s smirk. John lifted his arms and allowed Sherlock to take his shirt off for him, wishing he had thought to go to the gym recently, and had cut back a bit on the takeaway.

He forgot all about that, however, when he saw Sherlock’s face as he ran his hands over his chest and stomach. He sat up to press hot, openmouthed kissed down John’s chest. John sighed and carded a hand through Sherlock’s hair without thinking. Sherlock let out a strangled groan and bucked up into John, causing clothed erections to brush against each other, as both boys gasped.

“Sorry, I forgot about that,” John said, unable to keep the smirk off his face. Sherlock looked up at him from under his thick lashes and bit down on the skin right under his collarbone. He licked at it immediately after, however, so John knew he was forgiven.

Sherlock kissed his way to John’s nipple, where he flicked his tongue against it, causing John to arch his back and give a choked moan, before he took Sherlock’s hands and gently pushed him back against the bed. He ground down on Sherlock’s erection with his own, catching Sherlock’s groan in his mouth and tasting it with his tongue. Then he did it again, and again, and again, unable to stop himself—the feeling and sounds so beautiful he didn’t know if he would ever be able to stop. Sherlock finally pulled back with a choked gasp.

“John please, if you don’t want me to come in my pants, you have to stop,” he said, his voice low and rough and so sexy, that John thought he might come from the sound alone.

“No way, don’t you dare, you’re coming with my cock inside you, Sherlock Holmes,” John growled back, reaching down and swiftly unbuttoning his trousers. Sherlock lifted his hips from the bed to allow John to slide the trousers off, but John instead dug his fingers into Sherlock’s thin sides. The younger boy gasped and let out a high-pitched giggle more out of surprise than anything.

“Arse,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes. John grinned at him in mock apology, not in the least bit sorry. Sherlock was still for a heartbeat, then he suddenly surged upward and found all of John’s ticklish spots with unerring accuracy. John tried to give back as good as he got, but it was difficult when he was so breathless from laughing so hard. It was worth it, however, to hear the giggling sounds that Sherlock emitted, which he would most certainly never make had he any kind of control over it. John himself was laughing in a way that he hadn’t heard himself laugh in years, probably longer.

Finally, both boys collapsed on the bed next to each other, breathing hard and still giggling softly. John reached down and laced their fingers lightly together, unable to keep himself from touching Sherlock even for a few seconds.

“You’re a prat,” John said, turning his head to look at Sherlock, his tone light, and voice full of laughter and adoration. Sherlock turned his head to look at John, so their noses were almost brushing and their eyes were locked on each other.

“Yes,” he said, but it was more of a whisper, and his eyes were so open and so, so, soft. John sat up and straddled him once more, without breaking eye contact. He slowly pulled Sherlock’s trousers off his long legs and only broke eye contact to run his eyes over Sherlock’s beautiful body, noticing the goose pimples that raised on Sherlock’s pale skin everywhere his eyes looked. He reached up and ran a finger along the inner elastic of Sherlock’s pants, unable to stop his tongue from flicking out and licking his bottom lip. He looked back up to Sherlock’s eyes, now heavy-lidded, but still so open that it made John’s heart ache.

“Can I?” he asked softly, tugging gently at the waistband of the pants to make it clear what he was asking.

“Please,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes so full of want. John knew how difficult it was for Sherlock to open up to people, how rarely he actually showed what he wanted without any walls as he was doing for John now, and he suddenly found that he couldn’t breathe because it seemed that his heart grew to take up all the room in his chest. He gently tugged Sherlock’s pants down, uncovering his porcelain skin inch by inch.

When they were fully off and Sherlock was finally fully revealed, they were both breathing hard and ragged, and It had nothing to do with the tickling anymore.

“You are so beautiful,” John breathed, unable to stop the words from leaving his mouth. He leaned down to press a kiss against Sherlock’s hipbone, but once he was there, he was unable to stop himself from pressing another, and another, getting closer and closer to Sherlock’s cock where it lay, heavy with arousal against his flat stomach. He gently placed a soft kiss—more of a brush of his lips than an actual kiss—against the base Sherlock’s cock and felt more than heard Sherlock’s breathy sigh as he wound his long fingers into John’s short hair. He kissed him there again, with just a bit more force and ran the tip of his tongue teasingly across Sherlock’s hot, soft skin. He kissed his way up Sherlock’s cock keeping the kisses soft, but openmouthed with just a hint of tongue until he was at the head, and he could hear small, whimpering sounds coming from Sherlock.

Finally, John couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He opened his mouth and took the head into it, flicking his tongue against the slit lightly, smirking around it when Sherlock cried out and tightened his fingers in John’s hair. He sucked harder, but still not hard enough for Sherlock to gain any real satisfaction from it, preferring to keep teasing him.

“John,” he gasped, tightening his fingers in John’s hair until it became almost painful. John smirked around his mouthful. “You’re the worst person ever,” Sherlock continued when John still didn’t stop teasing him. At that, John was unable to hold back a muffled chuckle. “But I need you to stop.” John pulled off suddenly, concern clouding his features. Sherlock’s voice had sounded choked and serious.

“What’s wrong, beautiful?” he asked, stroking soothing circles on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock shook his head.

“Nothing, I’ve just never…” he trailed off, looking uncomfortable. “Never mind.” John brought himself closer to Sherlock so their faces were mere centimeters apart.

“Sherlock, talk to me,” he said, wondering what it was that Sherlock had never done. He knew that he had sex before, obviously, so he didn’t know what was bothering the boy. Sherlock avoided John’s gaze, his cheeks and chest pink with embarrassment.

“I’ve never done it…like this,” he whispered. John’s eyebrows furrowed in the middle of his forehead.

“You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific than that,” he said.

“So…carefully,” Sherlock finally said, his voice no louder than a sigh.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighed, finally understanding. “You gorgeous, gorgeous thing, I am so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Sherlock asked, meeting John’s eye for the first time.

“I should have done this the first time,” John said, regret coloring his words.

“Done what?”

“Gone slow, taken you apart, piece by piece, shown you exactly how much you mean to me,” John said, his eyes boring into Sherlock, neither of them able to look away. Sherlock shivered at the imagery. Sherlock was still for a moment, then he seemed to come to a decision.

“Flip over,” he said, pushing lightly at John’s good shoulder. John did as he was told, and this time it was Sherlock straddling. “Can I?” he asked, still hesitant.

“Do whatever you need to,” John said, smiling. Sherlock descended on his chest, nipping and licking and kissing the skin in a very organized and methodical manner. John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Are you…categorizing what I taste like?” he asked, amused. Sherlock lifted his head, looking slightly guilty.

“Yes,” he replied. John giggled.

“Well, carry on,” he said, gesturing to himself. Sherlock hesitated.

“You’re…okay with that?” he asked.

“I told you to do whatever you needed to,” John said, with a shrug. Sherlock looked away, unable to meet John’s gaze again. Instead, he laid a hand on John’s tanned chest and admired the contrast between John’s tan skin and his own, milky complexion. He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, then looked up at John and found that he didn’t need to say it because John already knew and understood.

He leaned down to John’s neck, the older boy lifting his chin helpfully unable to stifle a small smile at Sherlock’s almost child-like wonder. The smile turned into a gasp, however, when Sherlock unerringly found that spot below his ear that never failed to turn him on, and sunk his teeth delicately into it.

By the time Sherlock worked his way down John’s chest both were panting and aching. He slid off John’s trousers and pants, greedily devouring John with his eyes. John couldn’t help squirming under Sherlock’s intense gaze, but his erection never faltered.

Sherlock leaned in and began by kissing him slowly along his inner thighs, getting closer and closer to his cock, making John fairly scream with anticipation.

“Sherlock, please,” he finally said. Sherlock looked up and smirked.

“I thought I could do whatever I needed,” he replied, raising his eyebrows innocently. How he still managed to look innocent with John’s cock centimeters away from his face, John had no idea, but it turned him on so much that he had to look away.

“Okay, yes, great, fine, but please _hurry_ ,” he said. Sherlock chuckled softly to himself. He had never been allowed to go this slow before, all his other partners simply took what they needed from him and left, but John had _encouraged_ him to look, touch, kiss his fill and he wasn’t going to let the opportunity go wasted.

Despite that, John cock was resting so temptingly against John’s toned stomach that Sherlock couldn’t help planting a few light kisses against the base of his cock, slowly adding tongue the further up he got, listening to the increased rate of John’s breathing.

When he got to the tip, he suddenly and without warning, swallowed John down to the root, causing John to shout and grab onto his curls without thinking.

“Fuck,” John exclaimed, looking down at Sherlock, who had stopped with John’s cock in his throat, and looked up at John. He cursed again, the sight of Sherlock looking up at him with his beautiful eyes, his gorgeous lips stretched around his prick, almost too much. Sherlock had never sucked his cock before, and for the life of him, John couldn’t figure out why, as Sherlock expertly worked him with his mouth, tonguing at all the sensitive parts, pulling back just enough to run his tongue over his slit lightly.

John moaned so loudly he was quite certain the neighbors were able to hear, and would have cared, but then Sherlock swallowed around the tip of his cock and he moaned again, louder.

“Sherlock, wait please,” he cried, all too soon. “You have to stop, I swear your mouth is a fucking weapon.” Sherlock pulled off with an obscene pop, smirking.

“Don’t you dare come, you’re coming with your cock inside me, John Watson,” Sherlock said, repeating John’s own words back to him. John couldn’t help a huffed chuckle.

“Then get up here and we can get started on that,” John said, a wicked gleam in his eyes. Sherlock crawled his way back up John’s body, stopping to drop a kiss wherever he deemed one necessary. John rolled them over so Sherlock was on his back and then reached over to his nightstand for the lube. John kissed his way down Sherlock’s chest, stopping only to pay special attention to his nipples, knowing Sherlock was sensitive there, and loving how breathy his voice got when he spent extra time there.

He could tell that Sherlock expected him to stop when he made it to his cock, but he kept going, lifting Sherlock’s legs, so his feet were planted and his legs were bent, giving John full access. Sherlock shivered, when he realized where John was going, right before John gave a long lick to his perineum. Sherlock whimpered, which turned into a moan when John continued licking back towards his entrance. He swirled his tongue around it a few times, feeling it relax under his ministrations. Sherlock was emitting a steady stream of whimpers and moans, interspersed with the occasional curse word.

John lubed up one of his fingers without stopping his tongue and slowly slipped it into Sherlock’s entrance. He found Sherlock’s prostate and gently pressed it with his finger, increasing the assault with his tongue, leaving Sherlock writhing and fairly screaming. One hand was tight in John’s hair and the other was twisted in the bedsheets so hard John would have been concerned about them ripping if he could have thought about anything else besides his current activity and his own arousal.

He added a second finger when he felt that Sherlock was ready for it, but he was so relaxed that Sherlock barely even felt the stretch.

“More,” he said, his voice half whine and half moan. “Please John, I need more.”

John added a third finger and watched with awe as Sherlock fucked himself on them. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore, thinking he might burst if he didn’t have Sherlock right then.

He didn’t bother with a condom this time, but added lube to his cock before lining himself up with Sherlock’s entrance. Before he could do anything more, however, Sherlock began turning himself over.

“What are you doing?” John asked, placing a hand on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock looked at him as though he was an idiot, the expression a familiar one even through the haze of arousal.

“I’m turning over,” he explained as though he couldn’t imagine how John could have been so stupid. John shook his head.

“No, don’t, I want to see you,” he said. He saw a flash of wariness on Sherlock’s face and mentally kicked himself once more for not doing this the first time they had shagged. Sherlock lay back down and John waited until he was making eye contact before he slid in. He watched as Sherlock’s mouth dropped open in a sigh and his eyelids drooped as he seated himself fully inside of the taller boy. He slowly pulled back, keeping their eyes locked together as they found the perfect rhythm. It was slow but steady and hard.

Sherlock gasped John’s name when he found his prostate, so John continued to brush against it, not quite enough to make him come, but enough to feel good. He leaned in so their foreheads were touching and Sherlock’s face was almost just a blur.

“God, you’re perfect, love,” he said, the pet name slipping from his lips without him even realizing it. Sherlock, however, stilled for just a second before catching John’s lips with his own. He ran his hands along John’s chest, thinking that if this was what sex felt like, he had no idea what he had been doing all these years. It was so much more than just having John’s cock inside him, it felt like he was truly connecting with him. Though he knew that he would scoff at his own sentimentality once he came down from being high on endorphins, for now, all he could do was moan John’s name a prayer.

John slipped a hand into Sherlock’s, lacing their fingers together, and pulling away just enough to make eye contact again, feeling a shiver down his spine as he did so. Sherlock’s eyes were so beautiful, the pupils blown so wide he felt as though if he looked hard enough he could see directly into Sherlock. He reached a hand down to lazily pull at Sherlock’s cock in time with his thrusts. Sherlock moaned, and John licked it right from his mouth, unable to stop a moan in response when Sherlock clenched around him.

Their orgasms washed over them slowly, and more like the cresting of a wave than the explosion of lust and heat that had been their first encounter.

“God, you are so gorgeous,” John murmured into Sherlock’s skin, unable to stop the words from spilling out as he watched Sherlock ride out his orgasm. Watching Sherlock come was definitely among the most beautiful things John had ever seen. Sherlock smiled shyly, a blush crawling up his chest that had nothing to d with his recent orgasm.

“You aren’t so bad yourself,” he replied teasingly. John cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, not so bad, am I? Do you think you can make do with not-so-bad me?” he asked. Sherlock let out a sound that was an awful lot like a giggle, but if asked, he would completely deny having ever done anything that would resemble giggling. He pushed himself up and rolled them over gently so John’s softening cock slipped from him, but they remained as close together as they could as they lay on their sides.

“I suppose I could make do,” he replied, kissing the smile from John’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclosure: the reason this chapter took me so long to write is that my ability and experience to write fluffy smut (by which i mean sex where the partners are in love and the sex is a way to express that love instead of merely something that feels good) are lacking (this may, perhaps, have been obvious). so yeah this chapter was probably the most difficult thing i've ever written because i wanted to emphasize the fact that though it may seem so similar to the first time they had sex, they really have grown and accepted their feelings about each other
> 
> anyway enough rambling, until next time my lovelies!!


	12. Mornings with Sherlock Holmes are certainly memorable ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What kind of jelly would you like for your toast?”
> 
> “Mm, let me try the raspberry,” he replied, opening his mouth and making no other move towards it.
> 
> “Brat,” John chuckled affectionately and dipped the tip of one finger into the jelly and brought it up to Sherlock’s lips. He wrapped his lips around John’s finger and sucked lightly, flicking his tongue against the tip, causing John to take a sharp breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies!! It's only been a few months since i last updates aren't you proud of me?  
> Fun and exciting news which is useful to no one: I'm moving back to school tomorrow! Send me good moving thoughts!  
> Also! as you may have noticed, only one chapter to go! Woohoo, we're almost there!
> 
> No trigger warnings that i can think of this chapter, but if you'd like me to start tagging something please let know

The first thing Sherlock was aware of when he woke up was that he was too hot. He was covered in a blanket and wrapped up in something very warm and unmoving. It took him longer than he would have like to realize that it was John he was wrapped up in and then another second after that to realize that the fight to keep a smile off of his face was a hopeless one. He wiggled so he was no longer covered in a blanket, but still close enough to John to hear his heartbeat. He lay for a moment, listening, then pulled himself up onto his shoulder to look at John.

John was still asleep, his breathing slow and even and his eyelashes resting lightly on his cheekbones. The morning sun from the window turned his sandy hair into pure gold and Sherlock found it almost impossible to look away. When he did look away, however, it was because the blanket had shifted, revealing John’s tanned and muscular chest, which caused the breath to catch in Sherlock’s throat. John looked like a painting made of sunlight and gold.

Suddenly, John shifted, his breathing changing, and his eyelids fluttering as they opened sleepily.

“Were you watching me sleep?” he asked, his voice still fuzzy. Sherlock worried for a moment that watching him sleep might be one of those things that he considered “not good,” but then he caught the soft smile playing on his lips and relaxed.

“Yes,” he replied, lifting a hand to run one finger along John’s cheekbone, his sharp eyes catching the contrast between his pale finger and the molten gold of John’s skin. John chuckled, his eyes soft, the ocean lapping at the sandy beaches of his cheeks, before leaning forward and catching Sherlock’s lips with his own.

“I love waking up with you,” he murmured into Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock pressed himself closer to John’s warm body and hummed in reply, deepening the kiss. His hand travelled from John’s face down to his warm chest, where he rested one hand on the steady beat of John’s heart thrumming to full wakefulness and swiped a thumb across his nipple with the other. He heard John’s breath catch in his throat so he swiped again and couldn’t help but punctuate it with a lazy roll of his hips. John grinned into the kiss.

“Excited this morning, are we?” he murmured into the quiet stillness of the morning broken only by the sound of their mouths moving together and their breaths sharpening with want. Sherlock replied only by kissing further and further down John’s neck, finding all the spots that made John whine.

The love they made was soft and warm and bathed in early morning sunlight, causing their skin to glow and their hair to shine. They both thrust into the circle of John’s fist around them (Sherlock’s arse being a bit too sore to take any more at that moment), their breaths puffing from their mouths together, mingling and fusing. Sherlock couldn’t help but imagine the cells of John’s body leaving and entering his own, mixing with the cells already there, their bodies combining and merging as one, they were almost close enough, almost. He was close enough to see the individual hairs of John’s impossibly long lashes, close enough count the number of different shades of blue in his eyes, close enough that he could no longer tell where he started and where John began. With every thrust he felt them get closer and closer together, and he never wanted to stop.

He laced his fingers together with John’s free hand and squeezed tight tight tight as he came with shuddering sigh; he would have shouted were his insides not fused with John’s, would have cursed, prayed, pronounced his love for the man in his arms, were his lips not busy collecting the cells from John’s body to be distributed in his own.

John, he knew, came at the same moment he did, and he knew because he could _feel_ it, the combined pleasure of it, radiating from their bodies, it was like they were bouncing the pleasure between the two of them, a catch and release, a constant cycle that came and came and _came_ until they could come no more, and collapsed against each other, trying to find the way back to their own bodies, but reluctant to leave the other.

“Jesus,” John murmured quietly, breaking the silence first. Sherlock huffed an amused breath into John’s shoulder, but didn’t reply, unsure of how to ask if that was what sex was supposed to be, or if that was truly as incredible as it had felt.

They dozed a for a bit more, before Sherlock got restless and John got hungry. They padded downstairs (Sherlock wrapped in only a bedsheet, John in nothing but his pants), trading kisses and soft touches, both hardly believing that the other was there. John made them eggs and toast and bacon, while Sherlock deduced the news before opening the newspaper and was right _most_ of the time.

“Make sure it’s extra crispy,” he commented, resting his chin on John’s shoulder as he looked over it to see the bacon frying on the pan. He wrapped his long arms around John’s waist, and pulled himself closer as John leaned back against him happily.

“Anything for you, my darling,” John replied, and Sherlock could feel his face move into a smile against his own cheek. “What kind of jelly would you like for your toast?”

“Mm, let me try the raspberry,” he replied, opening his mouth and making no other move towards it.

“Brat,” John chuckled affectionately and dipped the tip of one finger into the jelly and brought it up to Sherlock’s lips. He wrapped his lips around John’s finger and sucked lightly, flicking his tongue against the tip, causing John to take a sharp breath.

“Hey, John I’m home and I brought a friend!” Mike called as he stepped through the door…and directly into the kitchen. John jumped a foot in the air, but Sherlock calmly kept his hold around John’s waist as John was the only thing keeping his naked front hidden from view (he was not altogether confident in his ability to wrap the sheet around himself fast enough that Mike and his friend wouldn’t get a good look).

“Hi, Mike,” John said, fighting to ignore the fierce blush climbing up his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “You remember Sherlock?”

“Er yeah…hello,” Mike said, clearly confused, but with a proud smile slowly creeping its way across his lips. “Lestrade, why don’t we give the boys some space for a few minutes? I’ll uh, show you around.” He led the tall man, but didn’t leave until he winked at John and Sherlock.

After they left, there were a few seconds of silence, except for the bacon still sizzling on the stove. Sherlock peered at it.

“I believe it’s crispy enough, now,” he said, looking for all the world as though everything had gone exactly as he had planned it. John couldn’t help but giggle as he took the bacon off the stove and put it on a plate.

“We should probably go get dressed,” he said.

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, raking his eyes longingly at John’s chest. John shivered under the intense stare. They made their way back up to John’s bedroom quickly, John not particularly eager to be seen in his pants by any more strangers, and Sherlock eager to see John pants-less.

After they got dressed, they entered the kitchen once more to see Mike eyeing their bacon quite hungrily.

“Oh, good morning John, Sherlock, sorry about…earlier,” he said his cheeks turning rosy. “This is Lestrade, I just met him through some friends and we hit it off,” Mike said, gesturing to the tall man standing nearby. Sherlock flicked his eyes up and down him once.

“Your girlfriend hates that you’re joining the police, she thinks you won’t ever have any time for her anymore,” he said dismissively, before moving in on the bacon with a fervor that John had never seen him eat with before. He smirked to himself, thinking that a few round of sex was all Sherlock needed to get his eating habits normalized.

“He means it’s a pleasure,” John said to Lestrade, stretching a hand out to shake for the both of them.

“Sorry, was he serious?” Lestrade asked, glancing at Sherlock nervously.

“She’s right,” Sherlock said around a mouthful of egg. John smiled apologetically at Lestrade but didn’t answer.

“So, you’re joining the police?” John asked, smothering a piece of toast in raspberry jelly. Lestrade cleared his throat and nodded.

“Yeah, actually just started as a Constable a week ago, sorry how did he…?” he trailed off, looking at Sherlock.

“I didn’t know, I _saw_ and it was really quite elementary, I would expect a bit more from someone with ambitions to become a detective,” Sherlock replied, glancing at John’s toast. John handed it to him without a word, already picking up a second piece and applying a smaller, more normal amount of jelly onto it. It was Sherlock with the sweet tooth, after all.

“Would either of you like some eggs or bacon? Coffee?” John said quickly before Sherlock did anything that could possibly get him arrested. But when he looked up at Lestrade, he found that the man was smiling.

“Sorry, but you wouldn’t happen to be Sherlock _Holmes_ would you?” he asked, looking almost bemused. Sherlock stiffened.

“Yes, he would,” John replied, eager to hear how Lestrade knew his name. Lestrade let out a laugh.

“Oh my god, I thought the other lads were taking a piss,” he said, looking at Sherlock as though he wasn’t quite sure he was real.

“I’m sorry?” John asked.

“Well, when I first started, all the others were joking around with me, telling me all these horror stories and such, and they bring up this kid, who, a few years ago, got picked up out of the gutter after overdosing on cocaine, who woke up, yelled at them all about a recent case, and then passed back out. About a week later, they solved the case and realized that he had been right. Ever since then, this Holmes kid would call them and leave them these horribly rude ‘anonymous tips.’ I thought for sure they were just taking a piss, I didn’t think you were _real,_ ” Lestrade laughed, looking at Sherlock with something almost like grudging respect.

“Well, I’m sure you’re terribly pleased to find out that I am, in fact, real,” Sherlock said stiffly. John looked from one man to the other and was unable to stop the giggles from pilling out. Sherlock looked at him as though offended by the betrayal.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but do you remember the first night you stayed here?” John asked, thinking about his burnt table, and the manic gleam in Sherlock’s eye as he raced through his explanation of the crime. He could very easily imagine the exact scenario Lestrade was describing.

“Well, they were _wrong,_ John,” Sherlock said, as though he couldn’t believe he had to explain himself. John chuckled, running a hand down Sherlock’s side soothingly.

“I know, I know,” he said, fighting hard to keep his face serious.

“So are you planning on joining the force too, then?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Please, as if I would subject myself to that sort of”—

“No, he’s actually studying chemistry,” John interrupted before Sherlock could insult the poor constable. Sherlock glared at him, and John returned it with a firm one of his own.

In John’s opinion, they ended up spending a pleasant morning together indeed, and he even exchanged numbers with Lestrade so they would be able to keep in touch later. He asked if Sherlock would be able to call him with any more of his tips, and Lestrade laughed, even though John wasn’t entirely joking. He decided that he would go ahead and take that as a yes anyway, and made a mental note to ask Sherlock his thoughts on some recent unsolved crimes. It would be a good, healthy thing for Sherlock to distract himself with, and he was, apparently, quite good at it.

In Sherlock’s opinion he would rather have been dead than spend another second in anyone else’s company other than John’s. he also felt rather robbed of what had begun as quite a perfect morning discovering all the wonderful noises John could make, and all the different way Sherlock could make him orgasm.

But he supposed that Lestrade was not the worst company they could have been in. And it would be helpful to have a friend on the force for when they would inevitably arrest the wrong person again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i'm thinking of perhaps making this into a series? Let me know what you guys think!
> 
> Until next time my lovelies!


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